<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Starkiller by IS0metric</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283552">Starkiller</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IS0metric/pseuds/IS0metric'>IS0metric</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:36:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>24,409</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283552</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IS0metric/pseuds/IS0metric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an unfinished retelling of the story of Galen Marek, the protagonist of The Force Unleashed video games. It takes liberties with the original story, only featuring a few of the characters and changing plenty of the plot beats. Consider it a reboot if you like: it takes the basic premise and runs with it.</p><p>I wrote this about 5 years ago and only recently was encouraged to share it here. As such, I don't really expect to return to it, but if it garners enough interest (if more than 3 or 4 people can stomach ~80 pages of my questionable writing!) I might have to set aside some time to write some more. This version has only the first few setup chapters before anything really gets going, so there's certainly much more story to tell, I just don't know if it's worth my effort. Let me know!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This prologue is long af. I considered breaking it down and spreading it throughout the story or somehow condensing it, but then I decided that I actually wanted to pass at uni so I set it all aside. Oh well, let's see what happens...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A few stars still twinkled in the early morning twilight. The sun was just beginning to peep above the horizon, shining into the thick mist and creating a bright haze above the treetops. Kashyyyk’s wildlife was stirring, the first hoots and whistles echoing across the canopy. It was serene.</p>
<p>But Kento Marek didn’t have time to take it in. He looked up into the sky, wincing against the glare of the dawn light, trying to make out any telltale signs. <em>Nothing yet.</em> He walked briskly towards a large tree house, the wooden walkway creaking beneath his feet.</p>
<p>He was greeted by a rush of warm air as he stepped inside, the atmosphere bristling with activity. The chamber was full of wookiees, bustling hurriedly around the room with a sense of urgency. Kento slipped between them, narrowly avoiding being crushed between their tree trunk-like bodies bumping against each other. A few he recognised, who grunted in greeting before rushing on with their tasks. He made his way towards the command centre, past bunks and weapon racks lining the walls. This was a barracks, one of the last still functional since most of the wookiees laid down their arms at the end of the Clone Wars. There were many clans and tribes who had never fully trusted the Empire, especially after the senate was dissolved. As it turned out, they were right not to.</p>
<p>Kento stepped into the command centre built right into the heart of the tree trunk, its curved walls formed from the tree’s core. He saw his best friend hunched over a console, scanning the screen as it read out pages of data every second. Kento tapped his shoulder - even with the wookiee bent over, Kento had to stretch to reach. The wookiee turned and rose to his full height, towering above all his kinsmen. His name was Kerchatka, one of the last wookiee berserkers alive and a veteran of the Clone Wars. His massive chest was scarred by dozens of cuts and burns from a lifetime of battle on the front lines. As a berserker, he had always been face to face with his enemy; droids, slavers, bandits, even rival wookiee tribes in the old days; regardless, he had always taken them on within his blades’ reach. There was a reason why there were so few berserkers left.</p>
<p>Kerchatka looked down at Kento and bellowed in greeting. He reached out to shake Kento’s hand, a tradition that Kento had taught him – they used to hug whenever they met, the standard wookiee greeting, but Kento decided that if they kept that up he wouldn’t be of much use to anyone. Ribs are hard to replace.</p>
<p>“How many?” Kento asked, getting straight to business.</p>
<p>Kerchatka growled and gestured towards the screen he had been studying. Kento’s heart sank when he saw the crackling image. Star Destroyers, at least six of them already, jumping into the system and moving to form a blockade around the planet.</p>
<p>“And still more coming?”</p>
<p>Kerchatka growled in the affirmative. <em>Well, fighting them is out of the question then.</em> The only other option was to evacuate to the forest floor and get deep underground. The Imperials didn’t know the perils of the floor, and would have trouble tracking them. Even if they could find them, the underground was defensible and almost immune to orbital bombardment thanks to the miles-high, dense canopy of forest on the surface. It was less than ideal: they couldn’t save everyone, and those who made it would have to stay in hiding until the Imperials loosened their grip on the system... which might never happen. It was survival though, and Kento needed that. And not just for himself.</p>
<p>“Where’s Galen?” he asked Kerchatka. The wookiee took him by the shoulder and led him towards one of the rooms stemming off the command centre. Most troopers would be in bunks lining long dorms which connected the barracks, but Kerchatka was their commander and a clan chief, so he had his own personal quarters. They were fairly cramped by wookiee standards and stripped of everything luxurious for efficiency, but the cabin was quite roomy for Kento’s size. In the massive bed was a tiny figure, swallowed by the sheets and almost invisible.</p>
<p>Kento took a shaky breath. He’d been up all night fretting about the imminent Imperial presence and making preparations for their escape; he hadn’t had time to stop and think. Seeing his six-year-old son, lying there so blissfully ignorant, filled him with peace. He sat next to the sleeping child and focused on nothing for a moment, letting his thoughts drift to memories. The joy when his son was born, the love he had felt for his wife, the pain when he had lost her, the hatred he felt for the ones who took her and the shame he felt when he hunted down and slaughtered them. All his emotions muddled together, each as strong as the next, almost overwhelming him. Kento, although he felt no regrets, thought he understood now why the Jedi forbade intimacy.</p>
<p>He shook himself from his thoughts. He couldn’t let his feelings take over, not now. There was too much at stake. The sleeping boy stirred as he lifted him, but didn’t wake. Kento passed him into the arms of Kerchatka, who looked at him, puzzled.</p>
<p>“Friend, take him on the first trip to the forest floor. You need to stay with him and keep him safe.”</p>
<p>Kerchatka bellowed in protest. Kento hushed him, glancing at the child. He slept on.</p>
<p>“You are a clan leader. Your people need you alive. You are the most valuable person here, a symbol of strength and stability. We’re going to need a figure like that down there.”</p>
<p>Kerchatka bowed his head, reluctantly conceding to Kento’s argument. Kento placed a hand on his arm and spoke softly, “I’ll stay back and get everyone out of here. We still have time. I’ll see you in a few hours when we’re done.”</p>
<p>Kerchatka nodded and stooped to leave the cabin. Kento watched as he pushed through the bustle of the command centre towards the landing pad. He wasn’t worried – Kerchatka was the best warrior he knew and would defend the child with his life. The boy was safest with him. It still took some effort for Kento to turn and head in the other direction.</p>
<p>There was plenty to do. Kento decided to start with sorting the families into groups to arrange an order for them to board the shuttles. They would listen to Kento. He had authority here. It wasn’t really by his own deeds either. He had gotten Kerchatka and many of his clan out of a few sticky situations, but the real trust had been built by his wife. She had been killed defending hundreds of wookiees from Trandoshan slavers, taking dozens of them with her to the grave. Kento had fought that day, but nowhere near as hard as she had; yet still he was honoured, upheld by the clan as a hero and a leader. He had never felt like he deserved it, but it would come in handy now that he needed to control the nervous gaggle of people in the village.</p>
<p>As he passed one of the consoles it began to flash and sounded an alarm. He frowned; when no one else took any notice he wandered over to it. It was reading out data too fast for him to follow. He cursed at his own inadequacy and pulled up another screen to figure out what he was seeing. He had never been good with computers, but could just about tell what the console was doing. It was feeding straight off one of their comms systems, but the hardware had been heavily modified. The receiver had been tampered with, essentially making it into a radar. An early warning system.</p>
<p>It dawned on Kento too late. He could already hear the scream of the TIE fighters’ engines as they swooped down over the barracks, loosing a volley of laser fire at the tree house. The shockwave threw Kento off his feet, hurling him against the solid wooden wall. His head smacked into the hard surface, sending a stab of white behind his eyes and juddering his view of the room. Fires had broken out across the building, smoke was filling the rooms and wookiees lay dead and dying. Growls of pain and anger reverbed around the tree as stunned warriors began to stir and regain their senses. Kento shook the ringing from his ears. He staggered to his feet, his thoughts only for his son. He peered through the smoke towards the exit to the landing pad. A beam had collapsed over it, bringing part if the ceiling with it. Kento might have been able to shift it if he focussed hard enough, but his mind was clouded by panicked emotions. It probably wasn’t safe either, the ceiling might give. He racked his brain, thinking of another way around. He remembered that the main walkway he had come in by ran all the way around the tree and linked to a bridge to the landing pad. He needed to get out there though. Thankfully the tree house had several exits for an occasion such as this, and Kento picked his way towards the nearest one.</p>
<p>As he neared the outside he could hear more engines. Not TIEs this time, something slower and heavier, a dull drone rather than a shrill scream. He knew before he even broke into the fresh morning air that they were gunships, likely loaded full of Stormtroopers. He fought blindness as he stepped outside and winced towards the horizon. They were closer than he thought, and he realised that he wasn’t going to make it to the landing pad cleanly. He slipped his weapon off his belt and gripped it firmly in his right hand. He started to run.</p>
<p>The walkway shook alarmingly as he sprinted across the strained wood. Several warriors had made it out of the smoking barracks, most of them clutching their weapons and howling in anger. The Empire should have bombed the place rather than risk even a small group being left alive, now burning with rage and hell-bent on revenge. But the Empire knew that. They weren’t stupid, they must have known. They needed someone alive.</p>
<p>Kento cursed. They must have found him somehow. But he’d been so careful. And why would they want him alive? Maybe they wanted to use him to bait a trap for other Jedi - he had always felt that some had survived. Or possibly a public execution in the capital, to set an example or as a show of power. But it didn’t add up; neither one warranted a full raiding party deep into hostile territory.</p>
<p>A gunship swooped down right in front of him, hovering just above the walkway. He had been spotted. The guns purred and shuddered. He leapt forward, not a moment too soon. The gunship opened fire, disintegrating the walkway where he had stood and slicing through the thinner branches which curled up to support it. Kento ran, aware of the gunship swivelling around behind him and preparing to fire again. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was torn apart if he kept going in a straight line. Taking in his surroundings, he literally went out on a limb and hopped down to a branch running beneath the walkway. He was out of sight, for a while, but didn’t have long before he ran out of branch or the gunship figured out where he had gone.</p>
<p>He went through his options as he ran and came to an uncomfortable conclusion: he had to disable the gunship. He’d flown in earlier versions before and knew their basic layout, but could only guess at a weak spot. Going up against it head on was madness, but if he gave it time to find him he was dead anyway. Taking a deep breath, he jumped back onto the scarred walkway, just below the searching gunship. He ignited his saber and flung it at the engines.</p>
<p>For a fleeting moment he thought he had beaten it. Smoke billowed from the slice he had made and sparks erupted from critical positions. But it didn’t fall. The ship stabilized and spun around, locking on to Kento. His lightsaber had made it back into his hand, and he raised it in a last ditch attempt to save himself.</p>
<p>Laser fire smashed into the gunship’s hull, throwing it into a massive tree trunk. Kento couldn’t stop a mad grin stretching across his face as a wookiee catamaran swung into view. It blasted another volley into the gunship, cutting its engines and sending it crashing into the canopy. It wasn’t over - the gunship was down, but its hardened blast doors shuddered open and a squad of Stormtroopers crawled out onto the walkway. Kento spun his saber and charged, thankful for a challenge he could face head on. The troopers barely had time to raise their weapons before Kento sliced into them, spinning and whirling, a flurry of flashing light. Most of them didn’t have time to stand, let alone fight, and the skirmish was over in seconds. Kento drove his saber into the last man’s chest as the catamaran hovered alongside the walkway. A stout wookiee climbed out and looked forlornly at the small pile of corpses that Kento stood over. The wookiee growled in annoyance, quite put out that Kento hadn’t left any for him.</p>
<p>His name was long and hard for Kento to pronounce, a very old, traditional name, owing to the fact that his father was a clan shaman. Kento had taken to calling him Qar, which was, as far as he could tell, what his name started with. Qar was one of Kerchatka’s lieutenants; a stocky, broad beast with a massive custom repeater, crafted from dozens of dated Trandoshan weapons which Qar had looted from his foes. He and Kento had formed a solid friendship when Kento had head butted Qar’s brother in one of their clan’s political bickering matches.</p>
<p>Kento smiled at the wookiee, “Hey, it’s not my fault you were late. You’re losing your touch, old man!”</p>
<p>Qar harrumphed and Kento chuckled at his pout. He looked across at the catamaran. “Did you come across from the landing pad?”</p>
<p>Qar shook his head and pointed back towards the barracks. There was a small repair dock there – Qar must have been lucky enough to find a functioning vehicle.</p>
<p>“I need to get to the landing pad,” Kento said, kneeling over one of the slain troopers. “Kerchatka is there, and maybe we can swing some shuttles around back to the barracks to pick up some survivors. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”</p>
<p>Qar agreed, but expressed his confusion as to how this could have happened. He had been in contact with Tarful, a member of the nearest clan, just as the raiders attacked, and Tarful’s camp hadn’t been hit yet. “Beats me, Qar. The Imperial invasion force was nowhere near ready, not even the advance recon forces. This attack was very precise and planned well in advance.”</p>
<p>Kento crouched and rolled over the dead trooper at his feet. A cold sweat broke across his neck. He looked across at the other bodies. All the same – custom markings and symbols painted onto the armour with tokens and souvenirs hanging from their belts and helmets; a sign of elite troops who had seen plenty of action. The paint was all the same deep blue and each one had the same insignia on their shoulder, a clear indication of the legion they served in.</p>
<p>This was the 501st, a battalion of some of the most elite, experienced stormtroopers in the galaxy, trained and seasoned to punch through anything ahead of one of the most feared men in history. It had earned them an apt name: Vader’s Fist.</p>
<p>Kento swallowed and rose, “Qar, we need to get out of here now. This is bigger – much bigger – than I thought.”</p>
<p>Qar growled at him questioningly as he leapt into an empty seat on the catamaran. “This legion serves Vader. Damn, that’s the reason for the early strike! He’s here, Qar. Vader is here.”</p>
<p>Qar didn’t need any more encouragement. He slipped back into the pilot’s seat and jammed on the throttle, sending them powering forward towards the landing pad.</p>
<hr/>
<p>They could see the smoke from a long way off. Kento feared the worst. A wave of relief washed over him when the landing pad finally pulled into view. <em>Well, it’s still there. That’s something.</em> As the catamaran landed he could just make out Kerchatka among the scorched wooden remains of docking stations. Galen was strapped to his back, now clearly wide awake and terror in his eyes. A handful of wookiee warriors were scattered across the platform, looking tired and bloody. The landing pad had been hit hard – Kento could see the smoking remains of two gunships on the large, circular platform and another teetering dangerously in the branches of the canopy below, but by the number of Stormtroopers lying dead in their dozens he knew there must have been many more. The landing pad looked like a wookiee victory, but they couldn’t take another attack.</p>
<p>Kento ran to his friend and hugged him, a decision he immediately regretted when the wookiee hugged back. Kento unhooked his son from Kerchatka’s back and held him close, thankful for his warm body against his chest. Holding his son gave him rejuvenated purpose to see this through. He turned to Kerchatka.</p>
<p>“Are any shuttles still operational?”</p>
<p>Kerchatka bowed his head. Kento couldn’t see anything flyable; he’d already known the answer before he asked. <em>What can we possibly do now?</em></p>
<p>As if reading his thoughts, Qar spoke up. He suggested that the two of them and Galen take the catamaran down to the surface, with one extra warrior to fill it to capacity, while he stayed behind to hold the landing pad and give them time to escape. Kento wanted to protest, but this was the only way. The only way to keep his son alive and keep the wookiee leadership intact. Kerchatka’s face showed the same conflict, but he eventually nodded, coming to the same pained conclusion.</p>
<p>Kento and the clan leader turned towards the catamaran. An explosion rang out behind them, and two gunships shot up from nowhere. They didn’t strafe the platform as was standard procedure (or at least had been in the Grand Army of the Republic), but went straight down to hover just above the wooden planks. Kento clutched the child closer and gripped his saber firmly. As the wookiees opened fire the blast doors on the nearest gunship slid open. Flanked on either side by the 501st’s finest, a tall, black-clad figure strode onto the platform. His cape billowed behind him and his boots thumped against the creaking wood. His hand flexed and a blade sprung from his belt. From where he stood Kento could hear the deep rattle of his breath. Darth Vader was here. And he was making straight for Kento.</p>
<p>Kento made a terrified snap decision. He placed his son on the ground and screamed Kerchatka’s name. The wookiee was reaching for his swords, but paused as he turned his attention to Kento. The former Jedi only hoped he would understand his plan. Kento lit his saber and charged straight at Vader, weapon prepared to swing. He never got the chance; before he’d made it a dozen paces, Vader flicked his wrist and effortlessly sent Kento flying off the platform. He frantically reached for branches as he fell, finally clutching one a few feet below the level of the landing pad. Taking a second to steady himself, he launched himself into the air and managed to catch the platform’s edge. Pulling himself up, he breathed a sigh of relief to see that Kerchatka had followed the plan. He had scooped the child up and was making a dash for the catamaran, which had retreated to the far side of the platform to avoid the crossfire. Berserkers were fast; surely even Vader would have trouble catching him. But Kento’s heart sank as he saw the dark Jedi leap into the air, damn near flying towards Kerchatka with his weapon held aloft, ready to strike.</p>
<p>From his awkward hanging position, Kento flung his blade with all his might. It was just enough. It glanced across Vader’s shoulder, barely slicing him, but making him grunt and fall off course. Darth Vader landed neatly in a crouch, turning his head to look at his attacker. Rather than chase the wookiee, he stood and faced Kento. The Jedi’s terror was overwhelmed by his sense of relief that Kerchatka was safe, and almost halfway across the platform. But now was the hard part. Kento figured that he could distract Vader while moving down the platform, then break off as soon as Kerchatka made it aboard and try and make it himself.</p>
<p>Hauling himself up onto the platform, he made another charge at Vader. Their sabers locked, twisted out and locked again. Kento immediately felt that he was out of his depth – Vader was much faster than he expected, and each slam of his saber jolted Kento’s arms. He was already on his back leg, but could probably hold Vader if he kept moving. That was okay – he turned his back to the catamaran and kept moving back, dodging and sidestepping the red slashes, only making contact when he absolutely had to to save his joints. Back and back they danced, Vader with a cool ease and Kento barely escaping each attack. He heard a cry from Kerchatka behind him. He had made it. Kento put all the focus and power he had left into an underhand push. It would have flung any other man several feet into the air: Vader staggered a single step back, but halted his advance. Kento turned and ran for the catamaran, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Already he could feel Vader recovering behind him, preparing to strike Kento from behind. Kento heard the hum of the saber just in time. He dived and spun in mid air, raising his own saber to deflect. Inches from his chest, the thrown red sword bounced off his green one. It wasn’t enough. Kento had saved his chest, but Vader’s blade spun down, slicing into Kento’s leg. He cried out and lost control of his dive, slamming into the hard wood.</p>
<p>Vader’s saber flicked back into his hand and he strode towards the fallen Jedi. He was going to execute Kento with a two-handed downward strike, which Kento couldn’t hope to block from the ground. He searched frantically for something, anything to hold Vader back. A slain Stormtrooper lay just within arm’s reach. Kento fumbled on his belt. <em>Flashbang.</em> Without thinking he pulled the pin and counted the seconds. Vader was upon him, arms already raised above his head. Kento flung the grenade at his face and prayed his timing was right.</p>
<p>It was, more by luck than anything else. The small cylinder detonated just inches in front of Vader’s mask. Kento had jammed his eyes shut before the flash, but he was still disorientated and damn near blind. Through the gloom he could just make out the dark lord, doubled over, clutching his helmet. Kento had a chance. Shakily he pushed himself to his feet and used his very last energy reserves to leap for the catamaran. He was surprised that he was on course. He had expected to fall short, but slammed painfully into the speeder’s bow. Stretching out his hand he hauled himself into one of the seats.</p>
<p>“Go!” he screamed, buckling up his safety harness. The warrior behind the controls punched the throttle and the wookiee ship banked into a steep turn towards the jungle floor.</p>
<p>Kento’s vision was clearing, but everything was still blurred and dull. He took in his surroundings and realised he was in the closest seat the catamaran had to a passenger seat. It was a good thing too – with his leg injury and dead senses he wouldn’t have been any use anywhere else. He looked at the rest of the crew: a warrior he recognised from the barracks was piloting, with Kerchatka cradling Galen in the gunner seat. Kento heard engines gearing up behind him, and knew the gunships were starting their pursuit. The catamaran was smaller, so it would be able to slip through some of the branches that might slow the gunships down. If they got enough distance between them then the wookiee craft would be easy to lose in the thick canopy of greenery.</p>
<p>Kento made out the fuzzy silhouette of the first gunship looming up behind them. Its cannons flashed and a stream of lasers blazed just above the craft, driving them into a dive. Another volley, this time just below, forcing the catamaran to veer up. Each sharp correction lost them speed, destroying their advantage and letting the gunship gradually catch up. Kerchatka strapped Galen to his back, grabbed the main gun and swung it to face the gunship. He wasn’t going for harassing fire like the Imperials were, and punched a steady stream of laser fire straight into the gunship’s cockpit. The glass was tough but couldn’t take such constant fire at close range. Cracks and burns began to show on the viewport. The gunship couldn’t manoeuvre away, locked in by branches on all sides. The glass finally shattered - so close that Kento could see the pilots inside ducking below their instruments. The crippled gunship dropped speed, allowing the catamaran to pull away. Kento punched the air and launched into a battle cry. He grinned over at Kerchatka: they were away!</p>
<p>His elation turned to horror, and the world slowed right down before his eyes. The limping gunship fired one last volley, this time straight at the small wookiee ship. It streaked across the gunner pod, narrowly missing Kerchatka. The beam securing the pod to the chassis bent and buckled. Kento could only watch as the pod fell away and tumbled towards the ground far below. Kento turned to the pilot and screamed for him to turn around. The warrior was slumped over the controls, a gaping hole in his chest from a stray laser. Kento looked around helplessly as the catamaran fell off course and smashed into a tree, the burning wreckage falling across the canopy and scattering into the wind.</p><hr/>
<p><em>Falling.</em> Kerchatka shook his head and tried to get his bearings. He felt around his back - Galen was still there, strapped securely in place. Kerchatka unstrapped him and cradled him in one arm, leaving the other free. <em>Slow down. Need to slow down.</em> He reached out to a branch and tried to hold it. He knew he was going too fast, but also it would at least give him more control of their descent. The grip tugged sharply on his arm, but he didn’t hold on long enough to hurt himself. He reached for another, repeating the strategy. He used the momentum from each grab to push himself towards one of the wide trees towering up into the distance. He braced his wrist guard against the trunk. The friction slowed them significantly and the guard was tougher than hardened steel so it wasn’t going to give any time soon. He turned to let his back armour take the brunt of the friction for a second while he pulled his knife from his belt. He dug the tip into the wood shooting past him. It stripped the bark but did little else, except nearly wrestling the knife from his grip. <em>Not helping.</em> The ground was coming up fast, but maybe just slow enough.</p>
<p>He made a decision and pushed himself off the tree towards a dense patch of branches. He spun onto his back and clutched the boy against his chest. The branches whipped around him and snapped beneath his weight, some painfully slicing through the fur on his exposed extremities. He closed his eyes and braced for impact.</p>
<p>His body smashed into the earth. The initial shock blinded him for a few seconds, pain shooting through his entire body. He stirred on the ground, rolling carefully out of the small crater he had created in the soft earth. His first thought was for the boy. He picked him up and looked over him. He was dazed and looked a little woozy, but seemed to be uninjured. Kerchatka tended to himself. His armour had taken most of the impact, but he’d still broken something. He picked himself up and rolled his shoulders. His joints clicked and groaned, but everything seemed functional.</p>
<p>Artificial light filtered through the branches above, and Kerchatka was aware of the faint buzz of an engine. The buzzing quickly grew into a roar, and the damaged gunship swooped down into a nearby clearing, a second one close behind. Kerchatka cursed as the searchlights blinded him – he’d been found, likely hadn’t been lost if they’d followed his fall. There was nowhere to run, especially not in his state. He scooped up Galen and hushed him, placing the child astride a low branch out of harm’s way. Stormtroopers were jumping from the gunships and leveling their weapons at him. It was time to make a stand.</p>
<p>Reaching behind him he slid the two giant blades from their sheaths on his back. Both as worn and battle scarred as their wielder, but both were just as sharp too. He started to run, spinning the blades around and getting comfortable with the weight and grip. He was upon the nearest trooper in seconds. The poor soul didn’t have time to react before he was cleft in two by a single, swift strike. The other troopers opened fire, failing to land half their shots on the whirling beast. Kerchatka slashed and spun and sliced, mowing down the troopers in a wave of motion.</p>
<p>Berserkers were feared across the rim, perhaps the whole galaxy, for their ferocity. Kerchatka remembered a time, centuries ago, when he had charged into battle alongside dozens of his brothers and sisters, a roaring wall of flashing fur, leather and deadly steel. It had been a long time since he’d made such a charge, a dash of animalistic energy and might, and longer still since he’d bade a warrior’s farewell to the last of his berserker kin. But the power, the rage, the yearning for blood swelled within him as it always had, guiding his blades from one target to the next, slicing, cutting, biting their way through the scattered soldiers.</p>
<p>But the fall had taken its toll, and the remaining troopers had a bead on him now. He dropped to one knee, his leg giving out. He’d taken too much fire. Blood was running through his thick fur as he made one last drive. It was slow and clumsy, and took the last out of him. He dropped to his knees, head bowed and panting, succumbing to the dark haze spreading around his vision. Vader stepped out of his gunship, approaching the wookiee. His saber slipped from his belt into his gloved hand. It lit up, casting a red glow through the gloom of the forest floor. He stopped in front of the warrior, seeming to gloat silently. Kerchatka’s breathing was laboured and uneven; he could barely lift his head to look up at the mask of his executioner. Vader raised the blade high above his head and struck down towards the wookiee at his feet.</p>
<p>Kerchatka closed his eyes, prepared for the end, when he heard a piercing scream. Vader’s saber jumped from his hand and flew across the clearing.</p>
<p>Into the hand of Galen Marek.</p>
<p>The troopers on the far side of the clearing spun around just in time to see the child swinging the oversized weapon at them. He sliced through the first soldier’s torso and plunged the blade into the second with impossible speed. He leapt across the open space towards the nearest standing Stormtroopers. They saw him coming, but could do nothing to stop the spinning child before he swept through them with the Dark Lord’s sword. The child sprung towards Vader, swinging the sword around from behind him towards Vader’s chest.</p>
<p>He was no match for his tall, dark opponent. Vader effortlessly caught the boy’s hand and twisted it behind his back. The child screamed as Vader wrapped his free hand around his throat. The sith’s lightsaber fell from Galen’s grasp as he frantically grabbed at Vader’s grip on his neck. Vader tossed him like a doll across the clearing. He hit the ground hard, bouncing and rolling to a halt at the knees of Kerchatka. The old warrior was barely clutching to life, but he had the strength to hold the child’s small body in his hands and grunt the last whispers of hope. <em>Courage, child. Courage. This is not where your story ends.</em> Galen looked up into the dark, sad eyes of his protector. The two of them sat, just for a moment, somehow finding a little peace.</p>
<p>Galen’s thoughts shattered as Kerchatka jerked, a shaft of red light bursting through his chest. The old wookiee slumped to one side as Galen scrambled away. Vader stepped towards him, saber still drawn, and placed a heavy boot on his chest. He stared down into the boy’s eyes – they were full of emotion. Pain. Fear. Anger. He lowered the point of the blade to the child’s throat. He held it there, where the tiniest flick would end his short life. Vader had his orders. But he had seen something quite remarkable in this child. Even if the boy’s father had been training him, the skill he had shown with an oversized lightsaber was far beyond any padawan Vader had encountered during his time at the temple. Rage and fear had taken over, yes, but he had never seen anyone dispatch members of his finest with such speed. There was far more to this boy. He had power. A power that Vader thirsted for.</p>
<p>He turned off his blade and hooked the weapon on his belt. He turned his head and growled a command to the squad captain, “Captain. Form up your troops. We’re done here.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>The gunships’ engines roared into life, sending the thick carpet of leaves swirling into the damp air. Vader felt the floor lurch beneath him as the ship began to rise towards the canopy. He glanced to the back of the troop compartment where the boy was curled up, shivering against the cold metal.</p>
<p>Vader had to act quickly. The he had to hide the boy from the Emperor, and to do that, he had to hide him from everyone. He unhooked a console from its slot on the interior wall and began to type in his report. That would pacify the Emperor. <strong>Target terminated. Pursued secondary to forest floor with squadron of two gunships.</strong> Vader paused. He had never lied to his master before. <strong>Secondary terminated. Troop detachment killed in action, one gunship lost.</strong> He replaced the console.</p>
<p>Darth Vader closed his eyes, stretching out with his feelings. <em>Eleven souls.</em> He flexed his hands and concentrated. The gunship stopped and hovered just below the canopy. Vader heard the pilots’ confused exclamations as their controls stopped responding. The stormtroopers looked towards the cockpit quizzically. One of them choked. Another clutched at his throat. A pilot coughed and gurgled. Vader’s hand began to shake with effort. The troopers in the main hold were all struggling for air now, their legs jerking as they lifted slightly off the deck. Vader flicked his hand shut into a fist – an unsettling sound rippled across the ship as eleven necks simultaneously snapped. The bodies of Vader’s guard dropped hard onto the steel floor, the pilots slumped against their instruments. The dark Jedi looked over at the child, whose eyes were wide with terror, before stepping into the cockpit. He pushed one of the limp bodies to the floor and took the controls. He pulled up behind the second gunship.</p>
<p>The intercom crackled into life, “Thought we lost you there, Hammer Five.” <em>Imbecile. Not following the correct communication protocol. Not that it matters. Not for long.</em> He flicked several switches one the panel in front of him. The computer screen flashed a warning: <strong>Target Locked.</strong> He eased the ship back to avoid the shockwave. “Hammer Five? What... What are you doing?” Vader pulled the trigger on his stick. A missile streaked out of his launch bay and decimated the already damaged gunship. The fire lasted only a few seconds as a shower of debris fell towards the jungle floor. Darth Vader pulled his ship up above the tree line and pointed the nose towards the upper atmosphere. He activated his intercom: “All units of the 501st: recon operation complete. Initiate full retreat. Return to the Star Destroyers and prepare for the full scale invasion of Kashyyyk.”</p>
<p>As the ship rattled against the pressures of entering orbit, Vader considered his actions. He had betrayed the trust of the Emperor, he knew that. He had disobeyed a direct order: to kill the rogue Jedi and his whelp. If the Emperor ever knew what he had done, he would punish him; severely. But for once Vader had the notion that, for the first time ever, he was a step ahead. As the Emperor had seen the power within him, so he felt it within this child. This was his chance, fated by the Force: he would secret this child away and train him to be as strong as himself, and use him to finally rid himself of his tyrannical master.</p>
<p>Galen Marek was to be his secret apprentice, who would help him rise up and rule the galaxy himself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Demonstration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which researchers make a presentation for some grant money.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <strong>Ten years later</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>Dawn was breaking over the Imperial Palace as another quadrant of the great city planet awoke. The skies of Coruscant were never empty, but as the pale sunlight rolled over the towers and domes reaching up into the sky, they filled to bursting. From above, the pinpricks of movement layered over each other a thousand times in disjointed threads, trickling busily, working their way through the weave of the checker-board city. Above the smog and the grime of centuries of built-up exhaust and fumes, the city stirring itself awake was quite beautiful.</p><p>Any other day, Cara would be down there on a rusty transit shuttle, weathering her commute in silence and steeling herself for another day of work. But today was different. Today she streaked above it all in the comfortable recliners of a gorgeous H-2 Executive, heading up and up to a new opportunity.</p><p>Dragging her eyes away from her viewport for a moment, she glanced over to see if her companions were enjoying the ride. Dr Contin, opposite, had his eyes glued to the viewport much like she had, and glanced her way when he felt her eyes on him. He beamed and waggled his eyebrows excitedly, his creased face stretched into an acutely contagious smile. Next to Cara, Iris looked nervous. She had not stopped chewing on her thumbnail since the ship took off, and was glaring at the ground just in front of her arhythmically tapping feet. Cara knew that Iris usually took the monorail into the lab, so being on a ship was not something she was used to. Cara wondered if Iris had <em>ever</em> been on a ship, but decided that now wasn’t the time to ask. Still, a conversation point for later – frankly, she needed more of those with Iris.</p><p>And opposite Iris was Daz. She was completely unmoved by the occasion, tapping casually at a data pad and occasionally staring up at the ceiling as if searching for words. Cara had been embarrassed to realise a few weeks ago that she enjoyed watching Daz work. She had a calming influence that was lacking on the core team, and having her around kept them grounded. Cara smiled as she remembered the last time she had settled them, just a couple of days ago: Iris and Contin had gotten into a furious argument, purely academic, about an appropriate bonding agent for application with adhesive resistant compounds. Voices were being raised and plans falling apart, the pressure of the fast approaching demonstration fraying everyone’s nerves, when Daz swept in from her office. Quite literally: she had burst through the door, carrying a refrigerated sample crate, and leapt athletically onto a central standing lab bench, holding the crate aloft. The extravagant entry was enough to shut everyone up, and, all eyes in her, she lowered her tribute dramatically. The samples had been swapped for bottles of beer, which fit into the slots surprisingly well, and she encouraged everyone to “knock a few back before you knock each other out!”</p><p>It was just the injection of levity that the situation needed; Daz passed around drinks, heard all the arguments, made her own suggestions and the whole thing was resolved before they had finished their first round. She was very good at that kind of thing. A listening ear, a few thoughtful words and a flash of a dazzling Daz smile was all anyone seemed to need when things got rough.</p><p>Daz was smiling at her now, Cara realised, but with a puzzled sort of look on her face. Cara wondered what that was about. <em>Kriff! I’m staring at her!</em> Panicked, she turned her attention back to the viewport so quickly that she banged her head on the hardened plastisteel. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks as she racked her brain, trying to remember when she had started staring and for how long. <em>Kriff, why do I always do this?</em> She snuck a glance back at Daz. She was back on her data pad, tapping away, an amused smile playing at the corners of her mouth.</p><p>Cara swallowed her embarrassment and tried to think about something else. They would arrive soon, and the demonstration would take place – that was a good thing to think about. She played through the procedure in her head, thinking through possible questions they had drilled each other on over the last few weeks. Daz had said there was no harm in being prepared, but she knew the type of crowd they’d be getting and she didn’t expect any questions. Cara wondered exactly what type of crowd it could be. Important, certainly, given the transport and the height they were flying. And the security checks before they boarded. And the vetting procedure beforehand. <em>Very important,</em> Cara started to wonder. Perhaps all meetings with the upper echelons of Coruscant society warranted the same level of scrutiny and attention. Despite having lived on Coruscant all her life, Cara really didn’t know much about how the other half lived. Maybe today she would find out a little!</p><p>The irony of the situation was that they were heading into the same building in which Cara had been working on various floors for almost seven years. Piian Tower was home to several facilities of varying prestige: the Medical Science Institute, the Valorum Foundation, the Imperial Nanotechnology Plaza, and of course the Coruscant Institute of Applied Sciences, where she had studied. Cara had only ever been on five or six floors, each one a good couple of kilometers square, but never any further up than her current lab, which still sat a good few dozen floors below the smog line. Today they were climbing up to nearly the top, she reckoned, where the floors became lavish, opulent suites, crafted to perfection. So she’d heard.</p><p>She felt the ship slow, a gentle swoop ushered in by the dip in the hum of the engines. She barely felt the shuttle touch down onto the docking apron attached to the side of the building. So much more civilised than the jarring, shuddering halts that her daily commute made! She would miss travelling in such style.</p><p>As the engines powered down, the hum whispering into silence, the doors slid aside noiselessly and welcomed the party onto the platform. The four passengers stepped down the retracted steps and onto the hard metal of the docking platform. Cara breathed deeply, enjoying the freshness of the air up here, the freshest she had ever breathed. Chilly gusts tugged at her clothes, the sounds of engines and machinery a faint hum beneath the quiet whistle of the wind slicing past the towering spire, stretching far up into the still starry sky above them. Iris appeared to be struck with wonder at the strange feeling of loneliness and quiet; Cara was feeling it too, up here alone on top of the world. Yes, she would definitely miss this tomorrow.</p><p>They weren’t really alone, of course. Daz was striding towards the tower’s entrance and the figures that stood waiting there. She glanced over her shoulder as if to hurry them along, and Cara picked up the pace a little. Daz wordlessly handed her datapad to one of the waiting figures, a stern looking man with hollow cheeks, dressed immaculately in a militaristic black tunic. Cara studied him. It wasn’t a uniform she recognised: it bore no insignia or rank and wasn’t coloured to match any branch of the navy or army that she was aware of. The man read in stoney silence for a few seconds before nodding curtly and spinning on the heels of his high boots, leading them inside. Perhaps it wasn’t Imperial military dress at all: it could be private, or off world. Or perhaps he just liked the outfit. Cara did think it was very smart, but decided that she probably couldn’t pull it off.</p><p>All doubts were cast aside when the doors slid open, ushering them inside a well lit corridor, convincing Cara that their audience was certainly the Imperial military. It wasn’t the surgical white walls and the floors polished like mirrors that gave it away. It wasn’t the bright lights burning her eyes from the ceiling above. It wasn’t even the man leading them, with his curious uniform and peaked cap. It was the four unmistakable forms flanking the door, resplendent and tall in their shining armour, of Imperial Stormtroopers.</p><p>Cara shrunk away involuntarily. She had seen Stormtroopers in operation on Coruscant before, a few times. Most planetary issues were resolved by the local peacekeepers or sometimes the army, but occasionally the Empire sent their finest. They had always frightened Cara, because they only appeared in light of real trouble, the kind that made people vanish. Being this close to them, their weapons clearly drawn as they stood to attention, made her uneasy.</p><p>The Stormtroopers didn’t seem to notice. They didn’t move a muscle as the party gingerly stepped across the threshold and the doors quietly rolled shut behind them. Their ghoulish masks hid their eyes, making it impossible to tell where they were looking and giving them a statuesque quality. It was creepy.</p><p>But Cara walked on, past the silent sentries, and fell into step just behind Daz. Daz was walking alongside the man who had let them in, uncharacteristically quiet. Usually she would have tried to strike up a conversation or point out an interesting display, of which there were many in long glass cases along the gleaming walls, but she remained silent. Cara studied the oddities herself: mostly they were unrecognisable, polished twists of some kind of metal, arranged artistically to express their angles. Cara couldn’t really tell if their intent was scientific or aesthetic, but perhaps only because she couldn’t really tell what they were. Cara had decided, regardless of the opportunity, that she didn’t really like this strange, quiet, alien place, with it’s weird exhibits and spotless floors. Iris seemed the same, twitching nervously next to her. Contin didn’t seem to mind at all, a few paces behind and taking his time to admire the scenery. That didn’t really surprise her – he would often regale them with tales of his glamorous clients through the years, so this probably wasn’t that out of step for him.</p><p>After what seemed like an age, the hollow-faced man halted and buzzed an identity card against an unassuming door, directing them in with a jerk of his head. Daz nodded in thanks and let the rest enter first, taking up the rear. Inside was an uncanny replica of their own lab. It wasn’t that surprising, given that their lab followed an Imperial standard, but every piece of equipment matched theirs perfectly, right down to the small digits of the serial numbers. Different from their lab, however, was the huge plastisteel window stretching across one wall, looking out into a large, bare demonstration room. This was where their product was to be first tested.</p><p>Daz tapped the panel behind them and the door closed, leaving the four of them alone in the quiet room. She flung her arms wide, “Well! Shall we get cracking? Demo in twenty!”</p><p>And get cracking they did. Cara pulled samples from a crate which had been delivered prior and started loading them into delivery tubes. Iris greased a set of actuators on a rig of mechanical arms. Contin started affixing an array of tiny needles to his contraption. They worked in near silence, occasionally firing each other clipped queries and confirmations, moving quickly and with certainty. Cara relished the atmosphere, the feeling that she was getting to show off something that she had been working on for several months now, and enjoyed the confidence that she hadn’t missed a beat. The awkward walk through the imposing corridor was almost forgotten, her mind consumed with mechanical, physical tasks which she knew, which she had trained her whole life to perform. She took pride in her work, glowing with the satisfaction of knowing that she had made something, something tangible, something good.</p><p>And then they were done. Contin slipped the final piece into the rig and stepped back alongside Cara and Iris, taking a moment to admire their construction. Cara smiled. Fourteen months they had spent perfecting the rig, and here it was: complete and functional before their eyes. Daz came up behind them, pushing herself between Cara and Contin and stretched her arms across their shoulders. “Well there it is,” she said quietly, observing the rig, a smile stretching across her face, “you’ve done it. It’s fantastic.”</p><p>Cara felt herself starting to blush again, the heat of Daz’s body suddenly feeling awfully close to her. She stepped away and swallowed, trying to stifle the giddy smile threatening to make her lose her professionalism. Contin saved her embarrassment by throwing his head back and cackling in delight, a short sudden shriek of triumph. Iris jumped sharply before steadying herself and nervously joining in, her breathless laugh escaping in ragged cuffs as she caught her breath.</p><p>“Elation!” Bellowed Contin, shaking his fists at the ceiling, “This is what elation feels like, my dear Iris! Do you feel it? We’ve done it!”</p><p>“Yes, doc!” She started laughing along with him, shaking her head at his typically ridiculous outburst, “Yes doc, we’ve done it! Cara, we got here! We made it”</p><p>Cara nodded, her own excitement growing with Contin’s every bark of exuberance. Daz laughed easily along with the rest of them, clapping Contin’s back smartly. “The beers are on me later. We know it works, and here it is in front of us just waiting to be used. So let’s show them, shall we? That’s the last hurdle, friends: time to show it off.”</p><p>Daz grasped the frame and wheeled the contraption towards the plastisteel wall. A section lifted away, giving her a clear path into the testing chamber. With one last reassuring look back, she flashed a Daz smile, and strode confidently into the room.</p><p>Cara, Iris and Contin had been very carefully selected for this project. They were not the first to attempt it, with many researchers having attempted the task in the past and moving on after a few months, their time spent resulting in nothing. The Imperial machine moved them on and set another carefully selected team onto the task, letting the cycle repeat over and over for almost ten years now. It was no terrible loss: the Imperial Science Division had thousands of projects in operation at any one time, with hundreds of success stories every day, so this tantalising project was never a terrible source of frustration. But still, time and resources and, most importantly, manpower – genius manpower – were dedicated to it each year.</p><p>And this year the stars had aligned. The perfect trio: a veteran of bio mechanics with almost fifty years of service to the Science Division, a plucky rising star from the academy with an impeccable track record, and one of the most diligent, precise chemical biologists the Coruscant Institute of Applied Sciences had ever produced. It was just the melting pot the project had needed, and within a month they had started to see results beyond anything seen on the project in twelve years. It was tantamount to a break through, and people noticed.</p><p>That’s when Daz had been sent to join them. Daz wasn’t a scientist, but a manager, specifically of people. She was earnest, diffusing, confident and utterly charming. She had a way of keeping them focused and fresh, of surprising them and digging them out of ruts that would have swallowed the project. Her stunt with the beer cooler a few days back was barely the tip of the iceberg of inventive ways that Daz had kept the project moving and on track. And now, at the end of it all, while Cara, Iris and Contin basked in their success, Daz would be the one to hammer it home.</p><p>She wheeled the rig into the centre of the room and stood to attention before a mirrored wall, which Cara assumed was a plastisteel two-way-mirror, just like they had in their lab. The three scientists walked right up to the glass, watching Daz staring up at the viewport behind which their secret audience stood, and waited for the magic to start.</p><p>“Generals,” she began, her voice ringing loud and strong across the room, “Admirals; Marshalls; and Commodores.” She let each word hang in the air for a second. Cara felt a tingle in the nape of her neck: that was an impressive list of ranks, enough to make her inherently nervous. Daz continued, completely unfazed, “For centuries we have been aware of gifted individuals among us. Individuals with an inherent power, a strength derived from their core… a kind of <em>force</em>. We all know the Jedi Order, steeped in failure and corruption, was little more than a gang of hoodlum tricksters, devoted to their own self-gain with cheap tricks and fear mongering false piety. And yet.” She paused again, letting her words echo teasingly around the chamber, “And yet. While we, of course, know this to be true, we also know that the truth is rarely straightforward.</p><p>“The discoveries made in this very building centuries ago indicate that there is a quantifiable essence within all living beings which gives them a certain aptitude for wielding something beyond our comprehension. What if we were to harness this essence? Consider an army, loyal to the Empire, with abilities to rival those of the Jedi. Let’s not pander to the public face: despite our protestations and statements about the Jedi falsehoods, you all know they had power – everybody behind that screen knows this. Let your guard down for a second and recall what they did; what they were; what they were capable of.”</p><p>Once again Daz paused, letting the words float into the imagination of her audience. They made Cara feel uneasy. People didn’t talk about Jedi, ever. To hear Daz being so blunt and overtly critical of the Imperial stance on the Jedi made her uncomfortable, even worried for Daz. Words like that could get people killed. But Daz knew what she was doing. Even from a distance, Cara could see the triumphant confidence behind her eyes. She pressed on, pacing slowly before the glass.</p><p>“Imagine what you could do with barely a fraction of the power they held. Imagine soldiers in your command with the same strength and tenacity. Imagine your very selves holding that power in your own hands. That is what I have to offer you today. Observe.”</p><p>She waved a hand above her head and the doors on the far side of the room opened. A bare chested man, well built but all-in-all unremarkable, entered the chamber alongside a column of odd looking droids. Daz gestured towards the rig and the man stepped towards it. He winced as the needles dug into his skin, wrapping the rig around his upper body. Actuated joints broke up the light metal exoskeleton, affixed to the man’s body in key places: the wrists, elbows, shoulders, nape of the neck and along the spine. He moved gingerly, feeling the movement of the strange contraption give and move with him, looking weightless and completely non restrictive thanks to the teams efforts.</p><p>“This,” continued Daz, “Is a delivery system for our unique chemical compound. It will not hinder the user whilst maintaining a steady flow of the concoction straight into his veins. The compound singles out and amplifies the essence that made the Jedi great, the essence inherent in all of us. These droids are EG-5 Hunters, built during the Clone Wars with a singular purpose: killing Jedi. Captain,” she gestured towards the man in the rig, “When you’re ready.”</p><p>The man squared up to one of the Hunter droids. For a moment nothing happened, as if they were sizing each other up. Suddenly, the droid snapped out a fist with such speed and strength that it should have crushed the man’s sternum deep into his chest. But the man wasn’t there anymore: with impossible speed he had dodged, sliding smartly to one side and springing up into a defensive stance. The droid seemed to hesitate, weighing up its opponent a little differently. In a savage storm of metal fists and limbs, it flashed out a string of jabs and digs, finishing with a kick that sliced audibly through the air. Still the man remained unharmed.</p><p>Cara was a little stunned at the visceral, dangerous nature of the demonstration. It wasn’t something they had discussed. She felt slightly betrayed that Daz hadn’t shared her intentions, but squashed the feeling quickly. Daz knew what they were working with and what the compound was capable of. She also knew her audience better than Cara could ever hope to, and wasn’t the kind of person to act recklessly. If this was the demo Daz was going with, it must have been necessary. Cara steeled herself and kept watching.</p><p>The man had dodged another flurry of blows and was looking more confident now. He danced around shots, staying closer to the droid now, not feeling the need to keep his distance. The tide started to turn when he progressed from dodging attacks to deflecting them. At first it was light touches, glancing across the droids limbs to help its weaponized hands away from his core; next it was fully impacted blocks, taking the brunt of the droids attacks without hardly flinching. Then, in the perfect arc of progression, he caught the droid’s hand. Now he was fully on the offence, spamming fists and forearms into the droid’s frame, knocking the machine back. The droid must have had the strength of ten men, but the man was matching it, beating it. The punches became reckless and brutal, the droid unable to recover from each rocking blow which piled on with dizzying speed, over and over, until it hit the ground. The man stood over the twitching limbs, struggling to take shape and rise, and reached down, yanking at the droid’s head. He ripped it clean off its mountings, holding it up towards the glass. He was bloodied from striking the hard metal but barely out of breath, looking fully capable of taking on another droid.</p><p>“As you can see,” Daz swept in triumphantly from her corner, “The compound heightens the senses, fuelling force within the good Captain. It reinforces the muscles, allowing for feats of extreme strength, speed and agility that cannot be matched by-”</p><p>
  <em>“Halt the experiment.”</em>
</p><p>The curt voice boomed from speakers placed around the chamber, cutting through Daz’s words and leaving the room in deafening silence. Daz frowned up at the observation window. Cara had never seen her perturbed like this, but felt the same way. Had they done something wrong? Had the audience seen something they didn’t like? What had they missed? Contin wrung his hands uneasily and Iris pressed herself incredulously against the glass, searching the room with her nervous, darting eyes.</p><p>
  <em>“The Captain will retire.”</em>
</p><p>It was the man’s turn to frown, but he obeyed without question. He approached the rack designed to hold the rig and let it be unhooked by the automatic actuators, splitting from him, leaving red welts where the hundreds of tiny needles had fixed to his skin. He suddenly looked tired, like he had just run a race a little too hard, but kept his head high as he marched out of the testing chamber.</p><p>
  <em>“You will wait.”</em>
</p><p>Daz nodded respectfully and began pacing slowly, the unfamiliar frown still etched across her brow. She seemed to be making a point of not looking towards the lab, not that she would be able to see the three scientists within anyway. Iris was fretting, chewing her lip and scratching at her wrists, a habit she had had for the months Cara had known her. Contin looked somewhat defeated, one hand leaning against the glass and the other slowly rubbing circles into his wrinkled forehead. Cara wanted to say something, maybe something bright and reassuring, but didn’t have the words. That was usually Daz’s job, but clearly the whole thing had had an effect on her too.</p><p>Cara played back the demo in her mind instead. Try as she might, she could think of no reason for stopping the demonstration so abruptly. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction for the borderline treasonous words Daz had opened with. Perhaps they assumed the droids were rigged and wanted to examine them. Perhaps in terms of Imperial soldiers being examined in the facility this whole attempt at Force manipulation just wasn’t that impressive. <em>Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.</em></p><p>Her thoughts broke apart with the clang of the entrance to the test chamber opening. She expected to see the Captain returning, but the figure walking into the room was not the man they had just seen. As he got closer, Cara saw the details of his frame take shape. He was a young man; no, more like a child. Possibly fifteen or sixteen by physique alone, but it was hard to tell. He wore light, baggy trousers and nothing else, just like the Captain. He was wiry and lean, too skinny for his age but well toned. He was probably quite tall, but walked hunched over with his head low, his eyes hidden in sunken sockets. Most striking of all was the pallor of his skin, ivory white and streaked with slashes and stabs of scar tissue. His black hair was cropped short and greying in part, making him appear as an old man.</p><p>Cara was confused. The boy was not. He moved to the middle of the chamber and straightened his back, now looking Daz dead in the eyes. Cara couldn’t see Daz’s face but she seemed frozen on the spot, at a rare loss for words. The boy’s eyes left Daz and tracked across the room, settling on Cara. Not past her, not beyond her; he was staring right at her through the reflective surface. The breath caught in her throat and a chill ran down her spine. It wasn’t possible. He shouldn’t be able to see her. And yet, she felt that he more than saw her, he saw into her, teasing away her defenses and reaching into her mind, grasping at her fear. She felt as if he were right in front of her and reaching into her mind, not thirty feet away between a thick wall of reflective plastisteel.</p><p>And then he looked away, stepping towards the rig and letting it fold onto him. Daz took a step back and retreated to her corner, clearly under no impression that she was still in charge of this demonstration. The boy didn’t flinch as the needles pressed into his skin, and he stepped forward easily, balancing on the balls of his feet. All the remaining droids simultaneously started to move, at least a dozen of them. “Wait, these droids,” Daz started, “These droids are not-”</p><p>Before Daz could finish, the droids sprung vicious looking blades from their wrists, metre long vibroswords made for sparring against lightsabers. They tracked forwards, swarming around the boy, starting to surround him. Cara put a hand to the glass in fear. They were going to kill him. She was about to watch him die.</p><p>The boy’s face twisted into a snarl. He leapt.</p><p>The Captain had been fast, but was an overlaiden Bantha in comparison to the boy. He bounded over the first row of droids, spinning mid air at the last second to avoid the blade of the droid he crashed into. With a growl, the deep, guttural growl of something wild, he ripped at the droid’s torso, tearing chunks of solid metal from its facade. As the the droids spun and closed in again within a fraction of a second, he leapt again, yanking another droid over his shoulder by its arm and smashing it to the ground. He darted and weaved, each movement calculated and brutal, smashing and tearing and crushing. His whirling limbs traced red as his knuckles became bloody from the repeated punishment, but he didn’t slow down. With a series of growls and snarls he cut the droids down one by one, until the last one blindsided him and slashed. He grunted in pain as his side opened into a neat red fissure of beading blood. He faced the last droid, hatred burning in his eyes, and <em>pushed.</em></p><p>Plastisteel is used to build spaceships. Better yet, Star Destroyers, huge warships and battle craft that have to weather more than the pressures of space. It’s used in viewports on bridges, where large sheets of the stuff a good foot thick is the only thing between a ship’s command crew and the chaos of laser fire and plasma beyond. That is to say, it’s extremely durable, and was the same material used to divide the obscured observation deck on the other side of the chamber from the room itself. And yet, knowing this, Cara still saw that as the boy flung the droid (which she wasn’t convinced he had even touched) into the plastisteel window of the observation deck, a crack split across the surface.</p><p>Smoke and dust settled in the chamber. The boy panted, clutching his injured side, his whole body heaving. Daz had flattened herself against the far corner, still only narrowly avoiding some of the flung debris. Cara realised her mouth was open, so she shut it and swallowed dryly. Casting a glance at the other two in the lab, she saw they were the same: utterly stunned by what they had just seen. The boy wordlessly returned the rig to its rack and limped away back out of the chamber, the door closing behind him, leaving the chamber in thick, heavy silence.</p><p>Daz adjusted her hair and her collar, trying to regain a little composure, when the speakers barked into life and demanded her presence in the observation room. Cara, Iris and Contin watched in silence as she fumbled her way across the wreckage of the Hunters and out of the chamber, out of sight. The three of them exchanged looks. Contin opened his mouth like he was about to speak but eventually gave up. None of them had any words.</p><p>They stood in silence for what felt like an age, processing what they had just seen. In fact it was only a couple of minutes before Daz reappeared at the door, still clearly shaken but a shadow of her usual self returning. It flooded back when she beamed at them.</p><p>“Well!” she said, the smile stretched across her perfect teeth, “They threw us a bit of a curve ball there but I’ll be if we didn’t kriffing deliver!”</p><p>Her confidence rippled through the scientists. Contin cocked his head to one side, “So… they were happy with it?”</p><p>Daz laughed breathlessly, “Look, happy is never a word I’d use to describe these people but… I dare say they were close enough! You kriffing did it, guys!”</p><p>Iris laughed along nervously, her bottled up anxious energy bubbling in her shaking voice, “So what… what do we do now, Daz?”</p><p>Daz flashed a smile, “They want you – all three of you – to take this further. You’ll get a new lab on 525 but otherwise it’ll be the same arrangement. We know this works, so time to make it work better. The future is limitless: mass production, lighter rigs, perhaps a rigless delivery method in the future. It’s all yours. You want it?”</p><p>Iris practically collapsed with relief, perhaps finally realising that no one was going to be marching her to a detention facility today. Contin did a little jig around the lab, cackling gleefully about a floor above the smog. Cara watched, silent.</p><p>Daz noticed and approached, “Well, Cara?” She flashed her impossibly disarming smile, “You in?”</p><p><em>No.</em> She wanted to scream it, to run away, to chase after that boy and find out who he was. What had they done to him? And before today, what had happened to make him the way he was? <em>No no no!</em> She didn’t want any part of this. She had been harshly confronted with her reality: the reality that while she spent her time mixing chemicals and reading screens and arguing with her colleagues about bonding agents, the outcome would always wind up in the same place. Her work, which she fully trusted in, was going to be thrust upon someone – someone who she didn’t know and never would, who may have to pay the price for it.</p><p>The boy’s face was all she could see. His piercing eyes reaching into her soul. Only now, thinking about it after, did she realise the soothing, cold blue colour of his eyes. For him she ought to say no, so that nothing she did could hurt him again. But maybe for him, she ought to say yes. What good would she be to him if she was moved onto another project? What if the Empire wouldn’t even let that happen after what she’d seen? If she was going to be any help at all, she needed to stay close and learn more. Cara’s heart sank.</p><p>But she smiled back up at Daz. “Of course I’m in,” she chuckled.</p><p>Daz opened her arms out to the team, “Then congratulations to you all. You’re about to embark on an amazing journey. Welcome to Project Starkiller.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Guns and Gold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which our heroes dress up and play it cool.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bothawui had never looked prettier. Bothan architecture had a strange yet beautiful quality to it: it <em>flowed</em>, almost. The buildings dipped and crested like waves in such a way that if you let your eyes unfocus and stared into the horizon, the whole skyline appeared to be moving.</p><p><em>Fascinating.</em> And only made better by the stark streaks of red slashing across the tallest of the sandy brown buildings. Huge, perfectly aligned flags, emblazoned in deep, rippling black with the Imperial insignia.</p><p>Rahm grimaced. He had to admit that the flags <em>did</em> add something to the scene. Maybe a sense of uniformity, tying the whole thing together. That made him chuckle. Even in imagery, the purpose of the Empire was tying things down.</p><p>He snorted to himself and stepped away from the edge of the balcony. Architecture, imagery… what did he know about any of that anyway? All Rahm had ever known was war. He’d made that realisation years ago, when the Empire had risen. He’d spent his childhood and his teenage years preparing to fight an evil that he had never really expected to raise its head, and then served as a young general in the Clone Wars. But it was only on the day when the Supreme Chancellor had ordered the death of the Jedi Order, almost eleven years ago, that he realised he would never truly see peace.</p><p>He tugged at the collar of his tunic. The starchy material tickled and itched his neck, but was a necessary evil. These parts of Bothawui were frequented by only those of at least a little repute. Fatigues and armour weren’t suited to these higher levels, and anything other than smart civilian attire would be out of place. The last thing Rahm needed was to draw attention to himself.</p><p>He stepped back inside and crossed the floor of the lightly bustling lounge to his companion. Bakkar nursed a glass of some spirit that Rahm didn’t recognise, hunched over and looking awfully self aware. Usually, the Quarren stood out everywhere, people inexplicably finding their eyes drawn to the sweeping ears and the mass of tentacles where most species would have a mouth. But funnily enough, Bakkar didn’t stick out here. The bar was full of strange and alien species, not all of which Rahm recognised, to his shame. Nemodians, Ortolans, Devaronions, and of course many Bothans, were chatting around the lounge. Not all of the language was basic, but every conversation had the same attitude: business. Everyone in the room was a trader or a supplier or a merchant of some kind, looking to make arrangements for their next operation – legitimate or otherwise.</p><p>Rahm slid into the seat next to Bakkar and caught the attention of a server. He liked Bothawui. Aside from all the architecture he didn’t understand, the nature of his business would likely go completely unnoticed. As long as his money ended up in the right hands, Bothawui was the place to make deals that the Empire would… frown upon.</p><p>He patted Bakkar’s shoulder and flashed him a smile, “Why so glum? We’ve got a bright future ahead!”</p><p>Bakkar grunted, “<em>If</em> this goes well. I don’t like the idea of getting our arm twisted by some Bothan smirk with glittery toys. You’d best not let that happen, Rahm.”</p><p>“Always a pessimist,” Rahm chuckled, sliding a credit chit across the table to a server who brought him a pint of ale.</p><p>“Well,” Bakar grated, “My pessimism has kept me alive in some sticky situations. Kept you alive too, I might add,” he jerked his glass at Rahm.</p><p>Rahm shrugged, “I can’t argue with that. But I’ve got a good feeling in my bones about this deal.”</p><p>Bakkar grunted again, “Just make sure you keep yourself in check, Rahm. There’s a lot that could go wrong.”</p><p>Rahm scoffed, but he knew Bakkar was right. That was in the job description though. All of them lived life on the edge, and the smallest slip could bring the whole enterprise crashing down. He took a long pull of his pint and tried not to think about it.</p><p>A Bothan emerged from the mingling crowd around the bar and pointedly observed the pair of them in turn. Rahm put on a smile and was about to greet him, but remembered his contact’s instructions: <em>never make the first move, not even to say hello. Bothans don’t usually bother with that because pleasantries are mostly a waste of time, and it’s rude to try and start a conversation on your own terms</em>. So Rahm kept his mouth shut and stared down the Bothan, who’s dark eyes looked him over.</p><p>Apparently satisfied, the Bothan sat down and slid a gleaming medallion across the table. Rahm took it and studied the insignia etched on both sides: a neat circle, slashed by three sweeping arcs. He’d discussed this with his contact too. The medallion was proof of identity, and it matched the description he’d been given, so he nodded and slid it back to the Bothan.</p><p>“So,” the Bothan purred, slipping the medallion into a breast pocket, “You’re here to talk about guns?”</p><p>Bakkar tensed and cast his eyes around warily. “Say it a little louder, why don’t you?” he hissed at the Bothan.</p><p>The Bothan cocked his head to one side. “No one <em>here</em> cares what you’ve come to acquire,” he said, an edge of amusement in his voice, “Far more volatile cargo has been exchanged over these tables and not once have the Imperials caught wind of any parties involved.”</p><p>Rahm sat forward and cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said, flashing a smile and letting laughter enter his eyes, “Forgive my friend; he’s easily spooked, bless his soul. Maybe frowned upon here, but spooking easily is very valuable in a firefight, let me tell you!”</p><p>Rahm tried to ignore Bakkar’s eyes burning into him. <em>I’ll probably pay for that later,</em> he thought, but focused his attention on the Bothan, “Guns are indeed what we’re after, and a few other items. I’m sure you saw our request in detail?”</p><p>“Yes,” the Bothan’s response was drawn out, indicating a ’but’ on the way. “But,” he said, “it’s the <em>other items</em> that will set you back. Not easy to lay hands upon.”</p><p>“But you’ve got them, right?”</p><p>The Bothan regarded Rahm evenly. “Indeed I do. But in acquiring these items, my organisation ran into…” He brushed imaginary lint from the sleeve of his tunic, “Considerable additional cost.”</p><p>“No worries,” Rahm said, spreading out his hands on the table, “How about I add an extra thirty percent?”</p><p>Rahm felt the response, a ripple in the Bothan’s psyche, but to his credit the dealer barely reacted. He smoothed down his tunic and casually glanced over at the bar while he spoke, “The initial price was considerable. Are you certain you intend on upping the cost, particularly by such a margin?”</p><p>Rahm sat back, “Consider it an investment. We may look to you to source us similar items in the future, and we would appreciate it if you would keep some handy for us for when we next swing by. You see, I envision this being a long term agreement, and would like to ensure that we have a place to invest our loose credits.”</p><p>The Bothan grunted. “That’s as maybe,” he purred, “But I think I have an idea of the kind of work you will be applying these supplies to. And, meaning no offense of course, but people in your line of work don’t always last a long time.”</p><p>Rahm thought for a moment, then inclined his head slightly, “Maybe. Maybe not. But while we are around, we can make the effort worth your while.”</p><p>The Bothan stared at him for a long time before finally nodding, “Very well. Consider the deal struck.” He produced another medallion, smaller and slimmer than the first, from his sleeve and slid it across the table. “My crew will meet you at your ship. Hand them this, along with the credits you owe, and our business will be concluded. For the time being.”</p><p>He stood, adjusted his tunic and nodded to the two of them. “I hope we will meet again,” he said, and strode out of the bar without a second glance.</p><p>Rahm flicked the medallion between his knuckles and chuckled contentedly to himself. “See Bakkar? Nothing to worry about!” He smiled over at the Quarran and was met with a glare that could melt a durasteel hull.</p><p>“An extra thirty percent,” he growled, “with no consultation, no discussion and no second thoughts. You don’t even know if we have the credits for that. Kriff, Rahm, what were you thinking?”</p><p>Rahm sighed and scratched at his collar, “look, I know it was a bold move, but I had to throw something in. These high roller types will take any hesitation as a sign of weakness. I had to move fast, think on my feet, you know?”</p><p>“Well you know what I think?” Grumbled Bakkar, “I think you knocked a few brain cells loose in the last buckethead scrape. The Green is going to knock you out of the quadrant, messing with her credits like that.”</p><p>“Actually it was The Green who told me to push higher,” Rahm said and drained his ale, “Wouldn’t dare cross The Green like that, not on your life. And certainly not on mine.”</p><p>Rahm stood and tossed the small metal counter into the air jovially before pocketing it. “Come on,” he said, stepping out from the table, “If we can get everything loaded up in a few hours we can be off the ground before nightfall.”</p><p>Bakkar stood and the two of them made for the exit. Chatter rang out across the bar, glasses chinked and the occasional light laugh drifted across the room. Rahm and Bakkar were just two more clients concluding a business meeting. It was hard to believe that they had just bought nearly sixty military grade weapons, enough ammunition for an Imperial legion, and several crates of the highest powered explosive ever produced in the known galaxy.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Deckplates</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which cargo arrives.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rahm and Bakkar stepped out onto elevated dock and walked briskly toward a sturdy frigate called Flinty Cipher moored in the bay. They headed toward the lowered gangway, noticing the line of heavily laden hovercraft drawn up near the cargo doors. The Bothan wind flicked hazy trails of dust into the air, beating the ship’s hull and casting them into the sky. Before they reached the ramp, a tall Zabrak wrapped in loose brown garb made her way down and strode towards them. She raised her goggles to her forehead and stopped in front of them, setting a large toolbox down on the dock.</p><p>Her name was Captain Kel Kardour, and she was one of the few people in the galaxy that Rahm feared. She inspired a fierce loyalty in her crew, the likes of which Rahm had never seen before in his military service or at the temple. She interacted with them easily and genuinely, which didn’t surprise Rahm, given her previous life.</p><p>The height of the Empire’s struggles in the outer rim had been about five years ago, when the Reach campaign to expand the grip on the systems was well underway and meeting resistance. Chief among their problems was not a local militia or a resistive government, but a single guerrilla band. No more than a dozen fighters laid waste to outposts, pillaged supply depots and assassinated officials, always well out of reach by the time the Imperials recuperated. Their leader was an unparalleled warrior known simply as The Green.</p><p>Tales of The Green seemed too tall to be true. Some said they could camouflage themself so well as to become the forest around them, slipping out of Imperial traps as if they were never there. Some said that they had personally laid the charges which dropped Cleaver Tower, a notoriously secure headquarters of Imperial Reach activity. Rahm’s personal favourite was a story that started with a cocksure General wanting to prove his worth by issuing a public challenge at a rally, and ended with that General lying dead in the ruins of his fortress with a knife in his eye.</p><p>As tall as all the tales sounded, Rahm believed them all. There was no doubt in his mind that The Green was in fact the lanky, unassuming Zabrak standing on the dusty deck in front of him.</p><p>“I see the meeting went well?” She said, gesturing towards the hovercraft, “Those cargo hulks showed up a few minutes ago. So how much did you set me back?”</p><p>“An extra thirty percent,” Rahm winced, and shrugged, “Sorry, Kel. I had to make a call, like you said.”</p><p>Kel grimaced, “Could have been worse,” she punched Bakkar lightly on the shoulder, “Good job keeping him in line, big man. Right, let’s see our haul then shall we?”</p><p>Bakkar grunted in agreement, and the three of them strode down the deck to the hovercraft. Mercifully, they were just within the shade of the spaceport structure overlooking the dock, and Rahm breathed a small sigh of relief as they stepped out of the beating sun. Several Bothan crew members we clustered around the vehicles, and perked up a little as the three of them approached. One of them stepped forward, singling out Kel as the leader. Without speaking he presented her with a datapad for the full amount which she surveyed carefully. Rahm produced the medallion and handed it to the Bothan, who examined it and seemed satisfied.</p><p>“Alright,” Kel nodded to the Bothan, “I hope you’re happy to take this in chits. Chits is what I’ve got so it will have to do.”</p><p>The Bothan shrugged, unfazed. Kel knelt on the deck and unlocked the toolbox, pulling out two large racks of credit chits. She hefted them onto the deck for the Bothans to collect, and whistled loudly to get the attention of her crew. “Listen up. I want the weight off these carts and into my hold. On the double people, I want to cast off by sundown!”</p><p>“Where’s the fire team?” Rahm asked Kel, “No reason for them not to lend a hand.”</p><p>“I’ll take it,” Kel said, tossing a loose corner of her shawl across her shoulder, “There’s a dock bar just a few bays down, most of them went there.” Kel turned on her heel, but stopped and looked back, “Well. All but one of them did.”</p><p>Rahm sighed, “Where is he?”</p><p>Kel shrugged. “No idea, but if I had to guess I’d say somewhere inside the port. Look for the dirtiest hole you can find.”</p><p>“I’ll go get him,” Rahm muttered, cursing under his breath and heading back towards the spaceport.</p><p>“You’d better, Rahm,” Kel called after him, “And this time Rahm I’m not playing around: if he’s not in shape, he’s not getting back aboard my ship.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Aggressive Negotiations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fine, I'll fix the chapter names...</p><p>In which one of our heroes falls in a puddle.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bothawui City Spaceport was even hotter than the sweltering outdoors, and smelled a lot worse. The air was thick and muggy with sweaty, greasy smells of work and leisure. Rahm picked his way through the diverse press of alien bodies, all trying to be somewhere. Raising his head above the crowd, he could make out the dirty, flashing letters of the dock bar’s glowing sign.</p><p>He forced his way in and took in the surroundings. The bar was actually a little quieter and cooler than the spaceport interior, with patrons lounging in the smokey room, not trying to be anywhere but in their cups. Rahm spotted his quarry chatting happily in a booth in a quiet corner of the bar, and he made his was over.</p><p>They spotted him coming. “Rahm!” a big human at the table bellowed and raised a glass, “One for you? We’re about to get another round.”</p><p>Rahm was glad to see them looking happy. There was a certain sheen that a few pints put on anyone’s face, but Rahm could feel something beneath that: they really were happy. It made sense, really: they had friends, a home and a job, even if it was likely to get them all killed. But they hadn’t lost anyone in months, and wounds were healing.</p><p>Rahm shook his head apologetically. “Nothing for me, thanks. And no more for you either! The Captain could use your help getting the cargo on board: with all of us pitching in, we can be out by nightfall.”</p><p>The fireteam stirred and grumbled as they unfolded from the booth. Rahm exchanged goodly nods and greetings as they filed past him out of the bar. It was a rag-tag group: soldiers, operators and fighters from across the galaxy who were just trying to do their bit. Some of them had been part of Kel’s team when she was The Green, others had been picked up since she left the rim to target bigger Imperial fish, but all of them were committed to one thing: rebellion. Looking at them, one couldn’t possibly guess their combined kill count or the damage that their excursions had caused, but that was part of the point. They moved from planet to planet unseen, executing operations planned to a fault, hitting hard and vanishing in the wind.</p><p>The biggest of them, the one who had offered Rahm a drink, was the last to leave. Rahm caught his elbow and leaned in close, “You’re a man short, Bash.”</p><p>Bash scoffed, “You know he never drinks with us. You should speak to him, Rahm, he’s been getting worse.”</p><p>Rahm sighed and nodded. “Any idea where he is?”</p><p>Bash thought for a second, “I’ve only been here a couple of times, but there’s a few slug-hole bars on the other side of the spaceport,” he shrugged, “Look for the dirtiest one, I guess?”</p><p>Rahm grimaced and let Bash go. Bash followed the fireteam out, turning in the doorway, “I don’t envy you, Rahm. It’s a messy situation, but something has got to change. He’s effective and an asset to the team – I can’t deny that – but he crossed a line on Ord Mantel. It’s only a matter of time before he gets someone killed. Ball’s in your court.”</p><p>“Appreciate it, Bash,” Rahm muttered, and the big man walked on. Rahm ran a hand through his hair and sighed. On impulse he tossed some credits on the bar and ordered a shot of Verpine Spirits. The bartender barely set it down before he swept it up and tipped it back, slamming the glass down and striding for the doorway.</p><p>He pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the spaceport. It was constructed in a large ring shape, with assorted shops, diners, bars and warehouses clustered along the outer edge between gantries leading out onto landing platforms, and small private bays in the middle of the structure. The further around the ring he went the, the grimier and dirtier the place became. He was confronted with derelict shopfronts, rusting signs and mucky floors, covered in substances he couldn’t determine. The crowds thinned out a little but there were still plenty of people milling around; hardier, tougher characters with weapons in plain sight. Rahm wasn’t concerned for himself – he was perfectly capable of taking a few goons in a fight – but he didn’t want to start anything. The Green’s philosophy repeated in his head: <em>as a shadow, silent and unseen, only fitting into the background</em>. He had no desire to draw any attention to himself.</p><p>He came across the loudest establishment on this side of the ring so far: a bar, of some sort, with prices etched into the wall outside. They were very low, attached to poorly spelled names of poor drinks. The sound emanating from the grim interior wasn’t usual drinking patter – it sounded like a commotion. Rahm swallowed, hoping against hope that it wasn’t what he thought.</p><p>He forced his way between patrons crowding the door, all facing one direction, clamouring to get a look. The unmistakable sounds of a brawl raging in the centre of the bar broke through the whoops and cheers of the onlookers. Rahm kept pushing before emerging into the dimly lit impromptu arena.</p><p>The hardy furniture – probably designed in order to withstand just such an occasion – was strewn about the place, pushed around by jostling bodies. A rodian and a twi’lek lay unmoving in a heap, and two humans were nursing nasty head wounds. A trandoshan and a gamorrean stood trading blows with another human, bloody, bruised and definitely on the back foot. Rahm swore as he recognised him.</p><p>The two of them had trained at roughly the same time at the academy, though the other man was older. There was a big scandal when he had left the order, just as the Clone Wars started, with another (pregnant) Jedi. Rahm had never known him well, so it all happened around him without him taking much notice. But five years later, after the Empire invaded Kashyyyk, Rahm had heard of a band of Jedi involved in the fighting. They had apparently been massacred by Vader, who was in the thick of the fighting, but Rahm felt that he had to find out if anyone was left. No one was, at least not of the band he had been tracking, but he did happen upon someone else. Underground, amongst a motley tribe of wookiee hideouts, they were nursing a broken Jedi who had lost everyone. Rahm had been astonished to recognise the scarred, defeated soul he had found there, the very same dishonoured knight who had fled the temple with his lover six years before: Kento Marek.</p><p>Rahm hadn’t taken him away immediately; he could barely stand, and the Imperial blockade had been dicey even for his arrival. But he went back to Kashyyyk frequently, bringing supplies for the many wookiees hiding out on the planet’s surface while the Empire destroyed their homes above. Eventually he came across The Green and her crew, who made his job a lot easier. On one visit, years after finding Kento, the disgraced Jedi asked to become part of their resistance against the Empire. Rahm had hesitated: he could feel rage bubbling inside Kento, a sharp, ragged feeling which emanated danger. But having another Jedi on the team would make them much more effective, so he ignored his instincts. He was beginning to regret that.</p><p>Kento was now being pummeled by the trandoshan as the gamorrean held him in place. Rahm swore, recognising that Kento wasn’t going to get out of this one himself. He charged in, leaping high into the air and brought his elbow crashing down onto the top of the trandoshan’s skull. The big lizard dropped like a stone, leaving the gamorrean alone. He squealed in dismay and anger. Kento saw his moment and slammed his head backwards into the big alien’s face. It reeled back, disoriented and woozy, flailing its arms for balance and releasing Kento. Kento slammed a boot into its leg and punched it hard in the side of the head. The big beast dropped to its knees, swaying slightly. The Jedi finished the fight with a sweeping kick to the head, knocking the gamorrean to the ground.</p><p>A mix of jeers and cheers went up from the patrons of the bar, who began to mingle and break up the circle that had formed. Kento staggered towards Rahm and glared at him through a swollen eyelid. “I could have taken them,” he drawled.</p><p>“Sure,” Rahm snipped and grabbed Kento by the upper arm, forcing him out of the bar. He flung him ahead into the muggy air of the spaceport proper. Kento tripped over his own feet and gracelessly stumbled to the ground, landing awkwardly on his side.</p><p>“What?” he bellowed from the floor, spitting blood onto the rusty deck plate.</p><p>“Kel gave you <em>one</em> instruction,” Rahm hissed, “all you had to do was keep your head down and not attract attention, and where do I find you? Neck deep in a bar fight in front of half a hundred people. We’ve been on the planet for six hours and you’re already picking fights!”</p><p>“I didn’t <em>pick</em> anything, monk,” he spat, hobbling to his feet, “they started it, so enough of your pious platitudes.”</p><p>Rahm exhaled, frustrated and angry, “Great. Good story. So it’s okay if you bring Imperial peacekeepers down on us as long as you didn’t start it, right?”</p><p>“Piss off, Rahm,” Kento said, stretching his arm, “I’m fed up with that gang of wannabe pirates anyway.”</p><p>Rahm hated this. Any time Kento had a drink, the same story started to come out. How he was sick of being small time, how he was tired of all the Captain’s rules, how they were doing things all wrong. It was all hot air, but was still dangerous talk. In a situation where you had to put your life on the line every operation, wholly putting faith in your team to keep you standing, this kind of talk had impact. Rahm had seen it in the Clone Wars: a team starts to fray, they start to doubt each other, they second guess instructions. It has no effect for a while, until a crisis event happens and they’ve forgotten how to trust. Then the split seconds they lose in covering their own backs costs them the draw, and they all end up dead.</p><p>Thankfully no one else had heard Kento talk like this, and Rahm intended to keep it that way. He was an asset. He was useful in a fight and being a Force user had some serious perks, so he couldn’t have him cut from the fireteam. But policing his attitude was becoming more difficult, and the team knew something was off. If he kept going this way, it was only a matter of time before he did something rash and turned everything upside down.</p><p>He looked at the staggering mess in front of him and wondered if it was worth it.</p><p>“Well,” he sighed, “Kel won’t let you aboard looking like that anyway, so maybe you’ll get your wish. If not,” he pulled a water canteen and a compact trauma kit from his belt, “Let’s clean you up a bit.”</p><p>He perched on a nearby abandoned crate and started preparing some gel and antiseptic swabs. Kento hesitated, but reluctantly sauntered over and allowed Rahm to start tending to his wounds.</p><p>“Look,” he started, after giving Kento enough time to cool off, “I know it’s rough, and I know you want to take the fight to the Empire in ways that we just aren’t equipped for yet, but we’re getting there.” He carefully dabbled at a gash above Kento’s left eyebrow. “Soon we’ll be able to do more, but right now we <em>are</em> making a difference. We’ve helped so many people, and hurt the Empire badly. You just need to give it time – we’re making a difference.”</p><p>“It’s not good enough. They took everything from me, Rahm.”</p><p>“You seem to forget that they took everything from me, too. The temple and the order were all I had, and they were burned to ash while I was out there trying to help people.”</p><p>“That’s not the same,” Kento muttered, barely a whisper.</p><p>Rahm didn’t like that. He wanted to argue. At least Kento had <em>had</em> a wife and child, had spent time with people he truly loved. Rahm’s life had been spent in the temple with his teachers – he had known nothing else, and it had been swept away without warning in a flash. He was only lucky that he’d been on the other side of the galaxy with a militia battalion instead of clone troopers, otherwise he would have been slaughtered like the rest.</p><p>He swallowed his indignation; it wouldn’t help getting Kento back on track. He finished his treatment and inspected Kento’s face: passable. He’d still have to do some talking to convince Kel to let him back aboard.</p><p>“Alright Kento,” he sighed and stepped back, “The choice is yours. You can go back into that bar and drown your sorrows, get yourself killed or arrested, and end it all here. Hell, there’s a battalion staging ground just a couple of clicks out – might as well go out guns blazing, right? You could kill a dozen of them before they got you, perhaps more. Or, you could straighten yourself out and come back to the ship with me, where we’ll kill more than ten times that in our next op. What do you say?”</p><p>Kento grimaced, “Really think we’ll get to kill that many?”</p><p>Rahm hesitated. He hadn’t <em>really</em> meant it, in honesty. It wasn’t really about killing Imperials, it was about disrupting supply lines and means of production. They always killed a few wretched guards, that was just part of the process, but it was never the intention. But that wasn’t what Kento needed to hear.</p><p>Instead, Rahm jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “This trade I just made? Bigger than anything we’ve done before, by a long way. We’re better armed than we’ve ever been and Kel has something very special planned. So yeah. We’ll be taking out a lot of them.”</p><p>Kento took a deep breath. He straightened up and rolled his shoulders, shaking his head to sober up a bit, “Fine,” he said, “I’ll stick with you. For now.” He strode off ahead, leaving Rahm alone outside the raucous bar.</p><p>Rahm had done what he had set out to do, but didn’t feel good about it. Perhaps he had saved a member of their team, bolstering the squad to fight harder. Or perhaps he was just delaying the inevitable. Maybe Kento was going to let them down anyway, and maybe Rahm was making it worse by dragging him back in. He couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that very soon, something was going to go very wrong.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Glass Boxes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which we witness just another day at the office.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Floor 525 was much nicer than the old lab. It was cleaner, quieter and brighter, with all the fixings and power sockets working perfectly and plenty more space to play around with. Their section of the floor was circular, with a large open plan lab space in the centre and a ring of spacious, richly equipped offices around the outside. The walls were made of glass, so although distance afforded some privacy, they could all see each other.</p><p>Cara wasn’t sure if it was a strange twist of fate or if someone very observant and awfully cruel had had a hand in it, but her office was next to Daz’s. They were arranged in such a way that their desks were only a few feet from each other, and the astonishingly clean glass meant that it was almost as if they were within each other’s reach. Cara was frustrated to find herself staring again, a lot. Whenever she found herself thinking too hard or stuck with something, her eyes would wander, looking around the lab as she picked at her brain for answers, and inevitably rest on Daz.</p><p>It was like she was magnetic – Cara just couldn’t help it. In her own defence, it really was fascinating to watch Daz work. When she read, her eyes tracked across the page with such smoothness it was almost robotic. It was hypnotic: they would gently slide to one side then snap back, slide again and so on, seemingly forever. When she typed, her head seemed to move a little oddly, and Cara knew it was because she was speaking the words in her mind, orating them to herself and subconsciously moving her body in the way she would deliver the words. When she spoke over her earpiece she stood and paced, was animated and bold. She gestured with her hands and her body even though the person she was talking to couldn’t see. When she thought, she would tip back in her chair and stare at the ceiling, drumming fingers on the desk or the chair or her thigh. And while she did anything at all, she always had that small, focused smile on her face, a confident little laugh of triumph behind her eyes. It was ridiculously compelling.</p><p>Daz was looking at her now with that puzzled smile again. Cara wilted. <em>Kill me – I’m staring again.</em> She had given up on looking flustered and busying herself with things to distract attention from her embarrassment; she just sighed, returning her gaze to her own station. Daz would never say it, but probably thought she was a real creep for the number of times she had caught her now.</p><p>Daz stood and walked purposefully towards her office door, catching Cara’s eye as she moved. She strode into the central space and kept walking along the edge, flashing Cara a smile now. <em>Oh god, is she coming in here?</em> She was. She pushed open Cara’s door and approached her desk.</p><p>“Morning! Mind if I come in?”</p><p>“Sure, fine, yeah, yes,” she spluttered. <em>Idiot. Pull yourself together and at least pretend to be a professional.</em> “Look, I’m… I’m sorry I keep on… you know… looking at you. It’s this new layout, it keeps making me look over there and-”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” Daz waved a hand, “I quite like it, actually.”</p><p>She winked and sat down in the chair opposite Cara on the other side of the desk, wheeling it in a little closer. “I’ve come to ask you something.”</p><p>Cara nodded and made an enthusiastic squeaking noise. She had meant to sort of grunt or <em>hmm</em>, but it was absolutely a squeak that came out. <em>For the love of all things good, what are you, fifteen? Focus, Cara!</em> She cleared her throat and folded her arms, making a deliberate effort to nod and frown thoughtfully. <em>Good job,</em> she thought to herself, <em>much more normal.</em></p><p>“There’s an offer I’d like to make you,” Daz began, blessedly ignoring Cara’s awkwardness, “but here in the lab wouldn’t really be the right place. Would you be open to getting a drink with me tonight, so we can talk properly?”</p><p>“I…” Cara fumbled, completely flustered now, “I don’t know, I… yes I think so.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, it’s not a date or anything like that.” Daz laughed. <em>Oh.</em> Cara deflated a little. “At least, not entirely. Garrison Strip at 2100 sound okay? I can send a shuttle for you.”</p><p>“Yes, thanks, that would be great,” Cara said, “Are you inviting anyone else from the team?”</p><p>Daz leaned back and ran a hand through her hair, “No. But there’s a good reason for that. It’ll all be clear tonight.”</p><p>Cara raised her eyebrows, “Sounds… spooky.”</p><p>Daz leaned forward, looking straight into her eyes, “Oh it is,” she leaned in close and barely whispered, “It’s gonna be life-changing.”</p><p>Cara swallowed. She felt an overwhelming feeling of self-awareness. Her palms were pressed against her upper arms. Her feet felt heavy on the ground. Her heart was thumping. Her breath felt too loud. Sweat pricked the nape of her neck. Daz was very, very close to her again – the memory of testing day, which Cara had played over in her mind hundreds of times came back to her. She could feel her warmth again, her skin hovering just shy of touching. She could see small scars and blemishes on Daz’s neck. She could smell her hair.</p><p>“And it might also be,” Daz said, leaning back, spinning in the chair and standing in a fluid motion, “spooky.”</p><p>Just like that, the moment was over. Cara felt odd, perhaps a shade of disappointment. Perhaps she had wanted something else to happen. But as suddenly as she had been plunged into the feeling of serene closeness and intimacy, she was yanked out of it, left with the snapped strings of broken thoughts.</p><p>“So, see you tonight?”</p><p>Cara took a second to respond, “Yeah, sure, of course,” she smiled and nodded, “Garrison Strip: I’ve never been.”</p><p>“Oh, you’ll love it. It’s bright and vibrant and fun, but I know a quiet place to chat. Perfect for life changing discussions. Your shuttle pilot will know the way. Dress casual!”</p><p>She winked and backed out of Cara’s office, chuckling to herself, and made for the elevator. The sound of her footsteps squeaking across the polished floors were silenced as the glass door to Cara’s office slid shut, locking her in deafening silence. She took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair.</p><p>
  <em>What the kriff just happened?</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Holoplans</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a plan comes together.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Alright then. Let’s go through this.”</p><p>The fireteam were crammed into one corner of the <em>Flinty Cipher’s</em> ready room, crowding round a holo-table set between some patched and faded couches. Captain Kel Kardour was standing, tapping buttons and adjusting the view projected from the table’s surface. Sitting and standing around was quite an array of characters.</p><p>Bash sat to the captain’s right with a mug of kaf in his hand; no one really knew his story, except perhaps the captain, but it had something to do with Kessel and the slave mines. Next to him was a young rodian called Pratti, who was the fastest draw Rahm had ever seen. Pratti’s background was no secret: he had been an enforcer and fixer on Nal Hutta since his teenage years before a few bad jobs made him reevaluate his life choices.</p><p>Across from Bash and Pratti were two human women who could not have been more different: Stitch lazed back on the couch with one leg propped up on her seat. Her skin was tanned and wind blasted from years of scavenging and smuggling on various outer world planets, which she might still have been doing had the Empire not grounded her ship and killed her crew. Next to her was Garret, who’s excellent posture betrayed a classy upbringing. Garret had been an Imperial Academy student for some years, fast tracked down an officer route, who had seen enough of Imperial best practice to know it wasn’t for her. These two women, sat side by side, were a testament to the acceptance of the Cipher’s crew.</p><p>The rest stood back a ways, leaning against the bulkhead or the bolted-down furniture. Sarthal, the furry-faced Talid medic, who had been a doctor to the homeless and the addled on Corellia. Yakt’ii, a rusty-skinned Twi’lek soldier from the second generation of resistance fighters on his home world of Ryloth, who had been fighting a losing battle for their freedom against various invaders since before the Clone Wars. Bakkar, the gruff quarran who had recruited Rahm to Kardour’s guerillas years ago.</p><p>And then of course, standing at the back, were Rahm and Kento. No resistance group they’d ever heard of had a Jedi on side, much less two. Their edge was huge, but they needed to be cautious about it: painting a target on their backs would help no one.</p><p>Kel swore and smacked the top of the holo-table a few times until a flickering image materialised above it. Rahm recognised a planetary summary, showing the planet, some values associated with atmosphere and temperature, and several figures of terrain snapshots.</p><p>“Thyferra,” Kardour announced, “Anyone been?” A few headshakes and negatories. Kel tapped the surface of the table, swapping between views of large industrial facilities and thick, green forests.</p><p>“Thyferra has been under Imperial control since the birth of the Empire, and was a staunchly Republic planet before that. The status quo hasn’t changed for the people living here in about a century, so we’re not launching a resistance movement or rescuing any oppressed civilians. Thyferra has been under the radar since it mastered its production pipeline, at which point everyone thought it would be better kept hush-hush what they were doing here; to hide specifically from people like us. Looks like it didn’t work, because here we are.”</p><p>Some chuckles resonated around the cramped cabin. Kel let them evaporate before continuing, “Thyferra has been the top producer in the entire galaxy, for the Republic and then the Empire, of one very special raw material: bacta.”</p><p>The atmosphere in the room changed. Eyebrows were raised and looks exchanged. Bash and Stitch leaned forward in their seats while Sarthal thoughtfully tugged on his beard. Rahm snuck a glance back at Kento: his face was unreadable. But the air in the room had changed – the fireteam was excited.</p><p>“As you well know,” Kardour spoke over the buzz of interest, “raw bacta has few practical applications on it’s own. We – as a team of resistance fighters – can’t very well use it ourselves, regardless of how many scrapes we get into. But it provides the basis for almost all medical manufacturing from the core to the furthest reaches of the rim. From death tanks to antiseptics to swabs and disinfectants, everyone needs bacta. In our hold we can carry more than enough to set aside stocks for our allies and sell the rest on the black market, which would more than make up for the cost of this mission.</p><p>“So yes, bacta is good. But the Empire have it locked down tight, and extracting our target will not be easy. Let’s break this down.”</p><p>The captain tapped some buttons and a layout of a large building flickered onto the holo screen, rotating slowly.</p><p>“This is Refinery Echo-99. It’s the newest one built, only finished a few months ago, and the smallest one built to date. These refineries cover the entire production process: harvesting form the raw materials, refining, tanking and shipping. You’ll see that there are a series of landing pads and hangers where ships come to pick up the raw bacta directly.” She pointed towards a cluster of structures where ships of many sizes and class could dock.</p><p>“The plan is to get in, find some bacta, clear a path for the ship to land and swoop in and out. Done and dusted. Step one is getting in.”</p><p>She tapped some more, and the image focussed on a large collection of pipes at the base of one side of the building. “Obviously these refineries produce a fair bit of waste, which they outlet into chemical streams on this side of the facility. The waste ports and tunnels are well secured to prevent people like us sneaking in through them – they expect this kind of thing. However, this particular facility is using a novel refinement method which is supposed to be more efficient, but is producing more waste water than the pipes were ready for. The solution was slap-dash: a few more pipes were installed – big pipes – but as of now have still not been secured. No laser grids, no cameras, no auto-canons. That’s our way in.”</p><p>She zoomed the image back out. “The refinery works at half capacity during the night so there will be some drainage pipes that won’t have any flow at all, which lead straight onto the refinery floor. From there, you’ll split into two fireteams. Praati will lead the first, which will be Garret, Yakt’ii and Stitch. The refinery will have some full tanks ready to be moved to storage: find them quickly and quietly, and move them to landing platform D3. It’s unlikely to be well signposted, so if you need to, make a stop off at the central control room on the refinery floor and Stitch can slice in and find what you need.” Stitch nodded, swinging her dangling leg lazily.</p><p>“Bash will lead fireteam two, with Rahm, Kento and Bakkar. You’ll go on ahead to the platform, where you’ll have two tasks. First, clear out the Imperials guarding the platform – recon indicates that there shouldn’t be more than ten troopers on any vacant platform, so should be well within your wheelhouse. Next, you need to get the platform ready for me to land – that’s the tricky bit. The bay doors and an array of auto-turrets ringing the entrance are centrally controlled across all the refineries by the Imperial signalling post: no manual override, so you can’t get the doors open or disable to turrets from the platform. That’s where the payload from our Bothan connect comes in; credit to Rahm and Bakkar for the goods.” The two exchanged a look and nodded to the rest of the crew.</p><p>The Captain slung a heavy munitions belt over the table, distorting the image as it swept through and clanged onto the surface. She unclipped a semi-circular device, small enough to sit comfortably in her hand, and held it up for them to see. “These are I-97e blasting caps. They have a triple arming mechanism so look closely: first tick latches the magnetic clamps onto a surface. Second tick, and the contact surface heats up by a couple of thousand degrees, boring a nice deep hole into the surface. Tick three, and roughly three thermal detonators worth of boom are plugged in and set off. Each arming sequence takes a few seconds, so don’t assume it’s a dud and go give it a thump. I’m looking at you, Bakkar.” The room chuckled and Bakkar grunted, drooping his head sheepishly.</p><p>“Place them on the door fastenings here,” she gestured towards a closeup of the hanger doors, “and on the auto-cannons here.” She brought up an image of a rounded gun turret and pointed up at a weak spot.</p><p>“Once things go bang, the Empire will be onto you pretty quick, so make sure you’re dug in nicely and have the bacta ready to load. It should take me no more than three or four minutes to get there once the guns are down, so you’ll just have to weather the storm. I’ll come in hot, with Sarthal on the guns, so give us a nice clear shot and we can mop things up.</p><p>“And that’s it: in through the drainage, one team grabs the bacta while the other secures the pad, blow the hatches and await extraction. Any questions?”</p><p>Garret raised a hand. “Any Imperial air support expected? Could make our getaway hairy.”</p><p>“There’s a TIE squadron housed at each of the larger refineries, which I expect will be called in when you’re detected. But,” Kardour zoomed the map out, pinging the nearest refinery, ”they’ve got a long way to travel – at least half an hour, not including scramble time. I expect we will be out of orbit and on our way by then, nowhere near the refinery at any rate.”</p><p>“Civilians?” Bash asked.</p><p>Rahm heard Kento tut, ever so quietly, behind him. He shot him a dirty look, and the other Jedi just raised an eyebrow, challenging him to say something. Kento had a sticking point about “so-called civilians”: anyone pledging themselves to the Empire was an enemy, whether they carried a gun or a clipboard. It was a sentiment that the rest of the fireteam didn’t share, but overlooked... until he did something reckless, Rahm supposed.</p><p>“The refinery itself has a very low worker count, being largely automated, and like I said, it runs at half capacity during the night. You might find a controller or two on the refinery floor, but a swift knock to the head should see them right. Don’t assume they’ll let you by: it’s a pretty staunchly Imperial rock, so don’t give them a chance to be a hero.”</p><p>Bash nodded. Kel looked around the room, giving anyone else a chance to speak up.</p><p>“Alright,” she said, standing, “check your gear and get some sleep. We’ll reach the sector in about eight hours and break atmo in nine. Use your time wisely. Dismissed, Ciphers.”</p><p>Rahm turned to leave, but Kento caught his arm and pulled him in close.</p><p>“You said we’d be killing people,” he growled, “Not exactly a barracks, is it?”</p><p>Rahm pulled his arm loose; carefully, so as not to cause a fuss and alert the fireteam. “What do you want from me, Kento?” he said, “this is the job. We’re making a difference.”</p><p>Kento’s eyes flashed as he shoved his face into Rahm’s, “It’s. Not. Enough.”</p><p><em>Then leave.</em> Rahm wanted to scream it, to haul Kento to the airlock himself. But he couldn’t shake the team up now, hours before a life-or-death operation. He stared Kento down, holding his gaze and not moving. Seconds ticked by. Eventually Kento was the one who caved – he huffed and left the ready room, making for the crew quarters.</p><p>Rahm took a deep breath and centered himself. He looked around, checking if anyone had noticed the encounter. Everyone seemed to be busying themselves with their own duties, until he caught a pair of eyes drilling into him from across the room. Bash stood leaning against the bulkhead, arms folded, a look on his face that didn’t bode well. Rahm walked over.</p><p>“Something we need to talk about?” Bash asked, not moving.</p><p>“Not urgently. The op will be fine.”</p><p>Bash snapped his head round to look at Rahm. His expression was clear.</p><p>“The op will be fine.” Rahm repeated firmly, and walked past Bash and towards the armoury.</p><p><em>The op will be fine.</em> Now he was telling it to himself, like it was all going to be okay, like Kento wasn’t becoming a problem. <em>Let’s deal with the op, get the bacta, and then deal with it properly.</em> He made that a promise to himself. This wouldn’t be like the other times: he was going to bring it up, get Kento and Kel into a room to talk it over, move past this. He’d sort it out, whatever it took. After the op though – after they had secured the job. He prayed that Kento would last that long.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Garrison Strip</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which secrets are spilled.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Garrison Strip had been around for a few hundred years, named for a large headquarters of a famed Republic legion: The Red Blades. The Blades had been founded by a veteran bounty hunter turned core Republican, Jaster Tor. His reputation was enough to grant him complete control over the legion’s recruitment, and naturally he filled its ranks with peers from his former life: bounty hunters, mercenaries and smugglers of the highest order, united under a single banner. Crucially, under a Republic banner.</p><p>The body of troops served the Republic dutifully for generations, proving to be one of the core’s most effective fighting forces and a perfect muse for stories and legends. But in the times of peace before the Clone Wars, the legion dwindled. Without anyone to fight, the fighters drifted, slowly losing the message of Jaster Tor and his inaugural mantra. The legion was disbanded several decades before the rise of the Empire, the garrison transformed into a museum of warfare through the ages. The stories of the thousands of warriors to pass through the legion’s ranks, generation upon generation, were etched into the bastion’s very walls.</p><p>But even beyond the garrison, the legacy of the Red Blades lived on in the Garrison Strip. Invitee fighters from across the galaxy came to Coruscant to serve, and many of them brought their families with them. The garrison was not a civilian boarding house, so the nearby residential areas filled with families of hundreds of different cultures and creeds, spanning divides of species and tradition. The strip became a cultural melting pot, with shops and bars and eateries popping up to cater for the most exotic and far flung tastes and tunes. By day, it was a heaving mass of bodies lazily perusing the open fronted stores, huddled beneath awnings and thronging around peddlers of refreshments and street food. By night, the streets were lit by bright signs for bars and dance halls, music from a thousand worlds and the giddy laughter of patrons drifting up into the traffic and smog far above.</p><p>Despite the chill of the night air, Cara wasn’t cold on the strip. The strip radiated warmth and energy, from the buzzing signs above and the steam gushing from the heated carts of the street vendors to the thrumming deck plates and the red faced dancers moving to their next haunt. Daz strode beside her confidently, pointing out the best places to eat and drink and search for cultural gems. She very clearly knew the strip well, and walked the streets like they were home. Perhaps they were. Cara was reminded that she knew very little about Daz at all.</p><p>She was, at least, happy with what she had chosen to wear. She had mildly panicked when she got home, suddenly aware that she had no idea where on the strip Daz was taking her or what sort of place to expect. She couldn’t decide on a dress, or whether she needed to eat before hand, or how much money she would need. Eventually she grabbed a purse with a few hundred credits stowed, wolfed down a quick sandwich and pulled on a light frock which she was comfortable in. Stepping off the shuttle onto the strip’s landing platform, she was happy to see that Daz wasn’t dressed up in anything fancy either. She actually hadn’t changed since work, but managed to look good nonetheless: shiny black boots up to her shins, dark slacks with deep pockets, a light, collared tunic tucked in loosely with the sleeves neatly rolled up to the elbow, with a not-unflattering number of buttons undone, showing a plain metallic talisman that she always wore just below the hollow of her neck. Casual, but somehow elegant. Radiant, in a way. And what a good neck she had. Seemed like an odd thing to notice, but there wasn’t a doubt in Cara’s mind that some necks are good and some necks are not so good, and Daz’s neck was very, very good.</p><p>She dragged her eyes from Daz’s anatomy to take in the Garrison Strip. She had never been before, never finding herself in the mood to explore the cultural diversity Coruscant had to offer, and was somewhat regretting all the time here she had missed. Everywhere she looked were smiling and laughing faces, of revellers and workers alike. Each food stall or cart had a jubilant alien singing its praises, trying to tempt passers by with a taste. A few times Daz acquiesced, always chatting easily with the servers – sometimes in languages Cara didn’t understand – and coming away with two portions of treats for them. Cara hadn’t a clue what she was eating as they walked, but it was always very tasty.</p><p>They had been walking for almost 20 minutes before they reached where they were going. The Pommel Shine wasn’t really what Cara expected. The front of the bar was less gaudy and bright than most of the places they had walked past, fronted with white walls and brass inlays bringing out patterns and lettering elegantly. The name was cast in a shiny metal, floodlit above the wide door. Daz led the way inside. As soon as Cara stepped across the threshold the rest of the strip dimmed. She could still hear the lively cacophony of music and merry makers, but it sounded faraway and underwater. As much as she had enjoyed the experience, the bar was a cool, welcome release from the noise and bustle.</p><p>Daz sighed in satisfaction, clearly thinking the same, and cast a glance across the bar. It was perhaps half full, with patrons sitting in pairs or small groups at round tables or darkened booths. They all struck Cara as a bit surly, perhaps even unsavoury. There were large men with scars and thick jackets, and sinewy women who looked like they were built of hard, industrial cable rather than squishy flesh. But more than one of them smiled and nodded in greeting to Daz when they caught her eye, and Daz nodded back, setting Cara at ease a little. Daz picked a table tucked away on the far side of the bar, well lit but secluded, and gestured to a server.</p><p>“So you’ve never been to the strip before?” She asked, leaning back in her chair. “How can you have lived here your whole life and not been to the strip?”</p><p>Cara shrugged, “Just never had the urge, I suppose. Culture and exploration weren’t really what I was… being shaped for. You know, growing up.”</p><p>Daz nodded knowingly, “I get it. Expectations.” She shrugged disarmingly, “In truth, although I do love the strip for a bit of release, I’m always left wanting more. It’s never quite the same. Like, the Sullustan spirits you can get here are made by a born and bred Sullustan, using all Sullustan ingredients, but it just can match the real deal, you know? Straight out of the volcanic hopper and into mugs to be drunk under the suns!”</p><p>Cara raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been to Sullust?”</p><p>Daz gave her a look that she’d not seen before, and couldn’t really read. “Yes.” she said after a beat, giving nothing away. She held Cara’s gaze for a moment, her eyes slightly narrowed, cursory, examining. Cara looked away. It wasn’t uncommon for the Coruscanti middle class to have been off-world a few times. Cara had never left the planet herself, but knew plenty of people who holidayed on Chandrilla or had emigrated from Corellia. Sullust, however, was an outer-rim world, known only for volcanic mineral mines and the refining industry. Not the kind of place a Coruscanti career-maker went to visit.</p><p>The server arrived with a jug of sweet smelling ale and placed it on the table. Daz poured two healthy servings and plonked the jug back down. She leaned forward, resting her chin on one raised hand while the other slowly tapped out a rhythm on the table.</p><p>“You know what my role is on the team, Cara?”</p><p>Cara felt relieved to have something to say. “You’re the people person,” she said. “You’re the one who makes sure we have everything we need and that our clients are happy.”</p><p>“Right,” Daz said with a smile, leaning back and swirling the ale in her mug, “But do you know what my job title is?”</p><p>Cara almost chuckled at the suggestion that she didn’t, but caught herself. Of course she did. <em>Did she?</em> Daz had always just been the people person. The one brought in when the project was nearly done, to see them through to the end. A little flustered at being caught out, she shook her head sheepishly.</p><p>“Operator.” Daz stretched out the word, annunciating all the syllables clearly. “Or to be more specific, Imperial Operator Lieutenant, First Class.”</p><p>“That sounds more like a rank,” Cara said.</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>Cara blinked. Daz’s gaze was unfaltering, a devilish smile playing at the corners of her mouth.</p><p>“So that makes you a soldier?” She asked.</p><p>“Of sorts.”</p><p>“Why would a soldier be assigned to an outsourced research project?”</p><p>“A good question,” Daz leaned forward again, “which I intend on making clear tonight.”</p><p>She took a long pull on her mug of ale before continuing, “Imperial projects are usually allocated an Operator in the final stages – you’re right, the people person. We ensure delivery and maximise returns, in practical terms. We divert burnout and maintain cohesion. Stretching out the soldier analogy, to me your team is a weapon: I keep it clean and loaded, pointed in the right direction, so that it always fires true.</p><p>“But my role as a soldier isn’t just a metaphor. You may not realise that I’ve been handling security. I’ve been working to ensure that the right people above us know what we’re doing and everyone else is siphoned elsewhere. I run background checks on our resource suppliers, the people dropping them off, the cleaners… you.”</p><p>She took another drink, almost draining the mug. “Operatives also liaise, from a military perspective. I frequently report on progress, and how likely the project is to be of use. In this case, we’ve caught some very important eyes.” She stared Cara down, “And that’s where my offer comes in.”</p><p>Cara swallowed. She didn’t exactly feel scared or anxious, just… uneasy. Daz was laying out her role like it was nothing, like it was common knowledge, like there had never been any secrets. It didn’t really feel that way though. She had never introduced herself as Imperial Operator Lieutenant First Class or even hinted that she was military. She didn’t wear a uniform or insignia or anything regulation at all. It felt underhand. Sneaky.</p><p>Cara played back memories of Daz: the first time they’d met, the first time she had forced the team to do a breathing exercise, when she brought welcome crates of beer or a pot of tea to the beleaguered scientists. Then she thought about the demo of the rig, and the obscured observation room that she had gone into. <em>Who had she met in there? Just how involved were the military in their project?</em></p><p>“Cara?”</p><p>Daz had an eyebrow raised and a half-smile, her head cocked. Cara knew Daz expected her to say something, but she didn’t really know what. So she nodded to indicate she was still listening and sipped her ale.</p><p>“I have a few questions,” Daz eventually began, “but I realise you probably do too. So if you want, I’ll answer what I can.”</p><p>Cara thought, still with the mug of ale to her lips. She wasn’t sure that she did have questions, as such. She certainly wanted to know more, but that nebulous desire didn’t really manifest into anything meaningful. She eventually decided to ask something mundane, just because she felt she had to ask something.</p><p>“How long have you been in the military?” She asked.</p><p>“I joined the Officer Academy when I was fifteen, as is standard,” Daz said, ”I’ve been in active service since I graduated, six years ago now.”</p><p>“And you’ve been to Sullust? On assignment?”</p><p>Daz flashed a smile, “Yes, I’ve been to Sullust, but I can’t answer the second part.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“It’s need-to-know,” Daz winked.</p><p>“Have you been to many other planets.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“We’d be here all night if I started to list them!” Daz laughed, ”anything else?”</p><p>“Just one more for now,” Cara hesitated for a second, “Have you been away on assignment at any point since you joined the team?”</p><p>Daz sat back and looked at her, long and hard. Cara was struggling to read her expression, which made sense, she supposed. Daz eventually shook her head, “Can’t answer that.”</p><p>She leaned forward, pouring another ale. “My turn now,” she said somewhat conspiratorially, “You’re the chemical biologist on the team, but how much do you actually know about the rig itself?”</p><p>“Are we talking about work now?” Cara asked, and tried being a bit cheeky, “but we were having such a nice evening!”</p><p>Daz grinned and shook her head, chuckling. It seemed genuine. Cara couldn’t help but smile herself, stupidly proud at being able to make her laugh.</p><p>“Come on now,” Daz said, “I’m serious. Could you set it up on a subject yourself, for example?”</p><p>Cara thought for a bit. “I think so, yes,” she said, “as long as I had the mount and my tools.”</p><p>“If it broke down or got damaged, would you be able to fix it?”</p><p>“That really depends on what was damaged,” Cara mused, “but theoretically I suppose I could, in most cases. I had a fair bit of input when Contin was developing the mechanics and a good proportion of it is my delivery system, so I think I could figure it out. It sounds like you’re trying to poach me!”</p><p>“Not poach,” Daz reassured her, “just offer overtime. Here’s the thing…” she paused for a bit and stared up at the ceiling the way that she did in her office when she was thinking. “We might want to start some light-touch field testing, but would really need someone onsite to assist who understood the rig. When we begin field testing – soon – I want you to be there to help.”</p><p>Cara thought. “Why me?” she asked eventually, staring Daz down, “Contin has far more experience. Iris is clearly brighter than I am, even though she lacks experience.</p><p>Daz nodded, “Well, Iris is far too skittish for one thing. The job won’t be <em>dangerous</em>, but it’s not lab work. It needs to be someone with a bit more… gumption. And I’ll confess, Contin was the choice recommended by my supervisors: he’s worked on Imperial military projects before and he has plenty of domain experience. But I think there’s something you have that he doesn’t, Cara.”</p><p>“Oh?” Cara’s heart fluttered a little while she feigned nonchalance, “what’s that?”</p><p>Daz narrowed her eyes at her, “I’m not sure yet. It’ll come to me.”</p><p>Cara felt stupid at how giddy that made her. Not only was she special, she was also mysterious, and to someone as enigmatic and storied as Daz.</p><p>“You don’t have to decide just now, but let me know if-”</p><p>“Oh, it’s a yes,” Cara said immediately, “definitely yes. I’m up for it.”</p><p>“Great!” Daz seemed a little surprised, but didn’t push it. “Perfect! You should know, though, it’s likely to take you off-world, and maybe quite suddenly. I mean like, Stormtroopers-at-the-door suddenly. Have a bag of essentials packed, that sort of thing.”</p><p>Cara nodded in acknowledgement. The mystery of the clients, the purpose of the rig, that strange boy who she had to help, this was her way in. This was how she found out more and built a story about it. She knew that her curiosity was getting the better of her, but she didn’t care. This was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up, a way to get deeper into the narrative legitimately, practically by invitation.</p><p>“And of course,” Daz said, “I’ll be there every step of the way.”</p><p>Cara blushed a little. <em>Well, that would be nice too,</em> she thought.</p><p>One of the other patrons, a tall, slim man with slicked back hair and the ghost of a scar on one cheek, approached the table.</p><p>“Good evening, Daz,” he smiled, with genuine warmth, “Long time.”</p><p>“Dexter!” Daz stood and hugged him, energetically, with plenty of back slapping, “I didn’t know you were back!”</p><p>“Touched down three nights ago,” his voice was deep and smooth. “Who’s your friend?”</p><p>“This is Cara. She’s from the science unit I’m assigned to this quarter. She’s just agreed to moving up.”</p><p>“Congratulations.” Dexter bowed slightly, “Taking part in the field stage of these projects is a thankless job, sometimes tedious and frustrating, but you will greatly appreciate the leverage you’ll gain.”</p><p>Cara nodded her thanks. She was suddenly a little nervous about what she’d just agreed to. Sounded like a promotion.</p><p>“Cara and I were just about to get something to eat. Would you like to join us? It would be good to catch up.”</p><hr/><p>Cara was initially childishly annoyed that Daz had just added someone else into their meeting, but it wasn’t a date. She knew that. It was a professional arrangement, and they’d already concluded their business. But after a little more ale, she became content with Dexter’s company. He had a dry wit and good conversation, perfectly gentlemanly and good natured.</p><p>Cara didn’t say an awful lot, but was happy to watch the other two talk. She became convinced that Dexter was military, an operative like Daz. He had the same mannerisms, the same charm, the same cool confidence. It was odd to her that she felt sure that she would have been able to peg the similarities, but wouldn’t have guessed that they were soldiers before her conversation with Daz earlier on.</p><p>More than once, other patrons approached the table, greeting Daz politely and welcoming Dexter back from his time away. Cara was connecting the dots: this was surely an operative bar, and all these people came here for down time between assignments. A few drinks in, she decided to try and dig a little.</p><p>“So Dexter,” she said, when the conversation naturally lulled, “Have you been away long?”</p><p>“A few months,” he said, casually, and without pause.</p><p>“Whereabouts were you?”</p><p>Dexter gave her a look. Yet another look that she just couldn’t read. “Well,” he chuckled a little, “I’m not really sure I should say.”</p><p>Daz laughed, “I already gave her the spiel, Dexter. She knows what I do, at the name level, and has no doubt got you pegged. I reckon our friend Cara here is trying to tease out some Imperial secrets!”</p><p>“Just making conversation,” Cara said, “I know you’re not really supposed to talk about it, but I’ve never been off-world before.” She looked between them, “isn’t there anything you can tell me about your exciting lives on other worlds?”</p><p>“Oh, I wouldn’t know about exciting,” Dexter said dismissively, “really operatives just spend a lot of time doing very boring things. Watching. Waiting. Reporting back, and so on. It’s actually quite tedious and mundane.”</p><p>Cara smiled and leaned forward, smiling playfully. “You said that without the slightest hesitation or doubt, but I don’t believe you for a second.”</p><p>Now Dexter laughed. “I see you have your hands full, Daz!” He said, pouring himself another ale. “It’s nice to have found a bright one to shadow you!”</p><p>“It is,” Daz said quietly, smiling at Cara. She slid around the booth and put an arm over Dexter’s shoulder, gesturing towards Cara theatrically. “You see her, Dexter? Polite, quiet and unassuming. But those eyes, look closely! Always searching, always seeing. She could dig a lot out of you I reckon, Dexter!”</p><p>Dexter nodded, hand on chin in equal theatricality. “That they could Daz. You must be on your guard.”</p><p>“You think this is bad? You should see her at work! She’s been onto me from the start, I tell you, watching me like a hawk! Trying to catch me out!”</p><p>Cara blushed, embarrassed that Daz would bring up her staring. But Daz shuffled back round the booth and squeezed her shoulder. Her grip was strong and firm, but warm. “Ah Cara,” she smiled, “we’ll make an operative of you yet.”</p><p>“I cannot tell you about my recent assignment or go into any details about the things I’ve done,” Dexter said, looking at Cara, “but I suppose… a few stories? Details muddied, timelines omitted, my prowess greatly exaggerated; that would be okay, wouldn’t it Daz?”</p><p>“I don’t see why not, Dexter. But where to start?”</p><p>If Cara had thought Dexter was good natured before, he was positively angelic now. Perhaps knowing where they all stood had relaxed him a little. He told them stories, and what stories they were! He told them how he had single handedly disrupted a crime syndicate on Bestine, how he had rescued a senator who had been taken hostage by his own disgruntled house guards, and how he had tracked a ruthless pirate across three sectors and into the outer rim. Cara was in no doubt that the stores were probably just that, or that he was missing out details to benefit the narrative, but she didn’t really care. She was enjoying herself, for the first time outside of work in quite a long time.</p><p>Daz was enjoying herself too. She chipped in, making corrections to Dexter’s stories and clearing up his use of jargon and military speak, and at times would throw her head back and laugh heartily. It was highly infectious. Cara hadn’t seen this side of her before, but knew it was the real Daz, the Daz without professional constraints, tied to the book. She was great fun.</p><p>It was well after midnight when they finally sauntered out onto the strip again. Dexter bid his farewells at the door and headed further up the strip while Cara and Daz walked back towards the landing platform. The strip was still bustling, but in a lazier, cooler fashion than before. People were still milling about the streets, laughing, dancing and drinking, but more sedately, perhaps on their way to their beds.</p><p>Cara and Daz chatted easily all the way to the landing pad, where Daz commed a private shuttle to take Cara home. They stood waiting, a natural silence falling.</p><p>Daz turned to look at Cara. “Look,” she started, seeming a little unsure, “I know I’ve kind of dropped quite a big deal in your lap tonight. You’re actually handling it really well.”</p><p>Cara looked down at her shoes. It really was quite a lot to take in: Daz was working for the Imperial military, she herself had just agreed to be a field representative for the team, Daz thought she was mysterious and special… Cara wondered if maybe, of all the things that she had learned that night, her priorities might be a little off. Her thoughts were swimming a bit. <em>Too much of that sweet ale.</em></p><p>“I don’t want to put anymore undue pressure on you,” Daz was saying, “But it’s probably best that you don’t tell anyone about our arrangement.”</p><p>Cara looked up. “Keep it a secret from the other two?”</p><p>“Just for now,” Daz said quickly, “until we’re a bit more clear of where we are.”</p><p>She reached out and touched Cara’s shoulder. The world went really slow again and Cara felt very heavy.</p><p>“I really do appreciate that you’re helping,” Daz said, her hand sliding from Cara’s shoulder and down her arm, coming to rest just above her elbow. “It’s a big step you’re taking, but it will be worth it.”</p><p>Her hand moved again, her fingers lightly brushing the fine hairs on Cara’s forearm arm. Her fingertips felt hard against Cara’s skin; hands that had seen labour, real work, not just the inside of an office. Her slender fingers wrapped around Cara’s wrist and gave her a light squeeze. The pressure meant something; it was confident. Reassuring.</p><p>Cara swallowed. This wasn’t normal. No one had ever made her feel this way, had ever reduced her to a self-conscious, stammering fool with barely a touch. Did Daz know? Did she feel anything herself? At all? Was she doing this on purpose? All part of her operative training? Whatever it was, Cara needed to talk about it.</p><p>“Daz-”</p><p>“There’s your shuttle!” Daz let go of her wrist and turned away, towards the light vehicle landing a few paces away. She hadn’t heard Cara. Or maybe she had and had cut her off, but it didn’t feel like that. Suddenly Cara felt like she couldn’t say anything. The moment had gone. She felt foolish, again. Two degrees and multiple awards, one of the youngest, most competent people in her field and she couldn’t even tell a girl that she had feelings for her. Daz was stepping away, making space for Cara to get aboard her shuttle.</p><p>She stepped towards it, feet leaden. <em>Say something!</em></p><p>“See you in the office tomorrow!” Daz called out cheerfully.</p><p>Cara turned on the gang plank, Daz’s name in her mouth, but it was too late. She couldn’t spot Daz for a second, but then made out her back, already a good way away from the platform. She was walking off quickly, probably on her own way home. Not looking back.</p><p>Feeling defeated, Cara turned and climbed into her seat, gave her address, and let the thousands of thoughts she had bouncing in her head wash over her, as the little ship lifted up into the night sky.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>